We All Fall Down
by dib07
Summary: Holmes goes missing and when Watson finds him in a psycho's house, he finds his partner rattled, confused and badly hurt. But with Holmes catatonic, no one knows for certain what went on inside that house. M rated. Warning inside with disclaimer.
1. Chapter 1

**We All Fall Down**

**By Dib07**

* * *

**UPDATE AS OF 27.9.12: **

**Dear all new and old readers alike, and all 'We All Fall Down' fans out there, I have good news, and bad news. The good news, is that 'We All Fall Down' will become a fully-fledged, completed novel, where the story will be given a fresh perspective, with much of the story redone, with an ending you may not have thought possible. I would like to update the fic to the very end, but that would mean no revenue for me, so if you want the full, restored version, you are going to have to buy it. **

**However, when it is published, I will upload the first chapter on my fic to show how much the original has been improved and reinstated and perhaps a few extras too. I have not given official notice on the story itself yet, but when I do, the novel will be available to purchase. Thank you for reading! What you are reading below is the old version. Soon it will be changed as an added feature.**

** Thanks again. **

**If you have any comments, feel free to contact me via FFN.**

* * *

**Summary**: Holmes goes missing and when Watson finds him in a psycho's house, he finds his partner rattled, confused and badly hurt. But with Holmes catatonic, no one knows for certain what went on inside that house. R rated. Warning inside with disclaimer.

Rating: 17+ **Teen**

**Warning:** Contains blood, mentions of rape and dark themes.

**Author's Note:** This fan fiction is purely based of the 2009 Guy Ritchie film with Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law. I may use quotes from Arthur Conan Doyle's book purely for realism and fun.

I do enjoy Holmes's and Watson's unique partnership. So this story may contain lemon and fluff.

**Keep in mind that the characters write themselves! I just tell them when to type!**

**Added Warning: This story MAY contain spoilers from the film. If you have not watched it yet I have warned you! And if you don't like blood or adult/dark themes then read at your OWN RISK!**

* * *

**Chapter 1: At Death's Door**

A raven, its feathers slick and oily black, landed neatly on a lamp in the street, cawing loudly. Watson barely paid it any heed. He was led by Lestrade and another group of police officers stood in a half ring outside the house. The house itself had the same Victorian front as the others but this one was laced with wild ivy while its tiny small front garden was thorny and overgrown. Inside was another horror story in itself.

With the oaken door wide open, revealing a tight, small hallway, it led out into a tiny kitchen and a living room. Both rooms had been soiled with blood and obvious signs of a struggle. Chairs had been pushed over. Picture frames were on the floor. The lamps had been smashed, and a desk so broken to bits that it looked more suitable for throwing onto a fire.

The curtains - an ivory color - had been ripped off and left to flood the floor by windows that had been boarded up with sweaty cardboard.

It was an aftermath of bloodshed and unfathomable shock.

The man - whom they believed to be the owner of the house and the one responsible for kidnapping Holmes and a few other victims in the past, lay dead in the centre of the upstairs bedroom. A pool of dried blood covered the floor beneath the corpse. A kitchen knife was imbedded in his side and what was responsible for his death.

Holmes, though still alive was not much better off. Having somehow miraculously survived Patrick's obsession for blood lust and murder whereas all others had died, was found under the man's bed.

Dr. John Watson was called for immediately. As soon as he could to Earlstone Cross, he got off the cab, paid the driver and met Lestrade outside the very house that had harboured such evil for so long.

It was now two in the morning. Earlier, Watson had been fast asleep in bed when he heard a sequence of unholy bangs on his door. Bleary eyed and a little irate, he went down in his nightgown to answer it. A policeman was at the door. Once the details were known to him, Watson hurriedly got dressed and muttered a frantic goodbye to Mary before he threw himself into the waiting cab.

Watson could not help but feel like he was still having a very bad dream. Having being rushed out of bed, everything gave him a surreal effect as the cab went north down the empty, tomb-like lanes of London. The horse's hooves were deafening as they clobbered along the road and everything around him was black, save for the streetlamps illuminating the road in a ghostly parade.

"It's okay, Dr." Said the officer beside him, "word says that we've finally found Holmes!"

Watson almost jumped at the sound of his clear voice. He had been fearing for Holmes every second of every waking moment. And when he was not awake he had been having the most unpleasant, terrifying dreams of Holmes being butchered, shot or taken away from him. Then he'd bolt upright in bed, startling Mary and awaking back to a world without his partner.

"Do you know if he's okay?" Watson blurted, feeling his hands shake upon his cane.

"Not sure." Replied the officer honestly, sounding dissatisfied at himself for not knowing, "but they called for you immediately, sir."

Let's hope it's not to identify his body. Watson leaned forward in his passenger seat, feeling both full of hope that gave him terrible heart ache but also dread. Please Holmes - be okay -

_Not in blood -_

_But in bond -_

Watson was out of the cab before it had even stopped in Earlstone Cross outside a detached Victorian Era house that had two floors. Lestrade and the other officers met him outside. Their faces were pale and grim as if they had been witnesses to a terrible sin too horrifying to put into words.

"Doctor, come with us. I hope you have a strong stomach."

Watson blanched. He had been in the Afghan war! But Lestrade's tone was so low and grave that he merely nodded and followed him into the house.

Like the other police men before him, he was shocked to see the same squander and mess. The blood, bright and cruel, had been splashed in nearly every room.

"This way," Lestrade said tightly, going up the stairs two steps at a time.

Watson noticed bloodied handprints on the peeling wallpaper here. They went upwards steadily like a child with hand paint.

"Who lived here?" Watson choked past a tight throat.

"Patrick Omen." Lestrade said at once, "responsible for the missing persons of Lucy April, Mandy Lustran and a man called Tom Swede. We've already located their dead bodies in the cellar of this house, proof that Patrick butchered all of them. Holmes was to be the next victim."

Before Watson could demand anymore questions out of fear, Lestrade brought him up the stairs and into the bedroom where the dead body of Patrick still lay.

On the floor, very close to the bed on the other side of the room was Holmes. A doctor he was not familiar with was kneeling down and tending to the fallen detective.

Overwrought, Watson sprinted over at once, dropping his cane. "Holmes?"

The doctor looked up at him. He had small glasses and white hair that fluffed the top of his forehead like cotton candy. He was smartly dressed in a white overcoat, even if its front was pigmented by the ugly color of blood. Holmes lay on the floor, eyes closed, his face bloodied and pale. Even from a short distance Watson could see how unsteadily his chest was moving up and down with each languid breath.

"Found him under the bed," the doctor stated quietly as if words too loudly spoken would shatter the world around them, "he's going to St Margaret's Hospital. He has grievous wounds that not even I know how serious they are."

"Internal bleeding?" Watson asked, shaking all over.

The man nodded. "We'll be taking him now. You need to go with him. If he wakes, it's more than likely that he'll be in severe shock. If he knows you're with him, he may just survive."

The officers came up behind them. Watson could not do his own diagnosis. He did not have the time. But due to the appearance of head trauma on Holmes's head by the result of blood matted into his dark, wild hair, it was possible that he was in a coma and would not be waking.

Between two men he was lifted and carefully laid onto a stretcher waiting. This revealed more blood to Watson that ran all across his comrade's groin, stomach region and chest. He could see it blotting his ragged clothes in cruel, startling smears that only threw more fear and agony into Watson.

Bravely, he followed him out after picking up his cane. He stepped over the dead body of Patrick with rage and disgust on his face.

Two cabs were waiting outside this time. One was a hospital cab with a deeper backing that allowed room for a stretcher. Holmes was loaded in. Watson got inside and watched the cab doors close. Despite leaving the effigy of the house, he could still smell the hot pungent odour of blood.

Groping for Holmes' hand in the darkness, Watson gripped it perilously tight and muttered prayers under his breath. At times he changed cadence and urged Holmes to pull through. Wake up and fight. Fight and survive.

Removing his heavy coat he laid it over Holmes's body and sat back, face wet with fresh tears.


	2. Chapter 2 Guilt

**We All Fall Down**

**By Dib07**

**Summery: **Holmes goes missing and when Watson finds him in a psycho's house, he finds his partner rattled, confused and badly hurt. But with Holmes catatonic, no one knows for certain what went on inside that house. R rated. Warning inside with disclaimer.

Rating: 17+ **Teen**

**Warning: **Contains blood, mentions of rape and dark themes.

**Keep in mind that the characters write themselves! I just tell them when to type!**

**Added Warning: This story MAY contain spoilers from the film. If you have not watched it yet I have warned you! And if you don't like blood or adult/dark themes then read at your OWN RISK!**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any other character in this fanfiction. This story is purely for fun!

* * *

**Dib07: Sorry that I haven't replied! I am a bad person! All your reviews are loved and adored! You keep me going so thank you for the inspiration that so drives me, and yes, I will reply to them individually from now on! Lol!**

Jellyhair: Awesome name! Makes me want jelly really badly even tho I'm a vegetarian! Love your comment dude! Hope you weren't waiting too long for this update! And yes, angst stories do rule! Might be slash – I ain't quite sure yet but it's gonna be somethin'!

FeedYourHead77: Me too! Lololol! Thanks for your review! I have so much planned!

Skipper96: Love yer pic and here's ya update! Please enjoy!

Intrepid Inkweaver: OOooh another awesome name! Man, mine seems so plain now! Thanks for the review and your interest! I hope I don't disappoint!

dbz27: Hope ya didn't wait too long for this! Love your comment and your support! I worship you!

KravenV: Omg you are so sweet! I am literally grinning right now after reading your complimenting review! How could I ignore your plea for updates? So here it is! It will gear up from chapter 3 onwards and LOVE your support and so glad I could provide something to enjoy! Lol!

* * *

**Chapter 2: Guilt**

A grey morning brought rain that peppered north London under a misty solitude. Cab drivers whittled down the streets in the thick of it. People hurried down slick, wet paths with umbrellas. Watson turned away from the window and reapplied the reassuring pressure of a tight squeeze on Holmes' cold hand. It had been the longest night of Watson's life and something he'd never soon forget.

A nurse came by and offered him tea and something to eat while John sat with an unconscious Holmes in the ward. Watson kindly turned her down. He felt worried to the core, which left him feeling nauseous and chilled. The last thing he wanted to do was eat.

Despite the late hours of the morning the doctors and nurses had attended to Holmes in the highest profession. Watson had to leave his comrade in their hands upon arrival to the hospital and having little choice but to pervade about in the waiting room listlessly like a mother desperate for news on her child. He paced or sat down. Then paced some more.

What was taking them?

Three hours crawled by as if God himself was trying to push back time.

Being a doctor himself he tried to list Holmes's possible complications, though such sceneries scared him still further.

_Blood loss, shock, coma, heart attack, organ failure, septicemia - death._

Frustrated - lonely - Watson endlessly flicked open his pocket watch and then snapped the lid shut, only to open it again on a ceaseless, methodical pattern.

At six o'clock in the morning, four hours since Holmes' arrival, the first doctor finally arrived. The name tag on his white coat read the name; Winson Mart. He had with him a clipboard. His steely eyes peered over it as he smiled kindly up at Watson who left his chair and trotted up to the man straight away.

"Is he - okay?" Was his first desperate question.

The doctor nodded, "for now. We have him stabilised but his condition is critical." The friendly smile dropped entirely from his face altogether. "Please, sit down and I will explain his condition. Then you may see him. But before we begin, may I ask, are you family?"

"No," Watson said, a tad regretfully, "but we're brothers in bond. I'm a very close friend of his. Have been for some time now. We've explored and cracked many cases together."

"Indeed." Said the doctor, "Holmes's brother, Mycroft - the only family member we could trace has already been notified through telegram."

Watson nodded at this. "Please -" He swallowed hard, "his condition -"

"Yes -"

Watson found his seat again but sat ridged and as stiffly as ice. "How bad - ?"

Dr. Winson sat down next to him. The waiting room had been empty all night. But even with another present in the room, the chamber still felt just as big and as unwelcoming. "Well, I know you may not want to hear all of this - but to warn you -"

"Please - tell me everything. My name is Dr. John Watson. I am no amateur when it comes to mortal wounds and the anatomy of the human body. Don't hold back." For he sensed that was all Dr. Winson was doing. Holding back and hesitating like a whimsical deer wondering whether to cross a busy street or not.

"Mr. Holmes is lucky to be alive, sir. His wounds are brutal and numerous. The worst is to the ribcage. A sharp, long knife had shattered his front ribs, whether by hitting them first with a blunt object, or smashing straight through." Watson looked away. His hands wrung angrily on the top of his cane. "His skull has suffered a fracture, thus inducing the coma which we hope is only a light one. Being as fragile as he is, we sedated him anyway. If he woke to pain he'd be worse off."

"What else?" Watson choked past the lump that had formed in his throat.

"He won't be able to walk much if his wounds are to heal so he'll be confined to a wheelchair but really I advise strict bed rest for seven weeks. He's been obviously beaten - which must have continued for a period of days. His stomach's the worst off - black bruises, sir. Some of which are internal bleeding which has cause for concern. The worst however is his chest wound as I have already mentioned. If he gets an infection, he will die, Dr. Watson. And this factor is significantly increased as he must have had the wound for twelve hours by the way the blood's dried around the entry wound and tried to clot unsuccessfully."

Watson gripped his cane so hard he was sure he'd snap the handle off. "Lord Almighty -"

"There's one more thing, sir," and the good doctor suddenly looked steeply more worried. His dark, glassy eyes looked both sympathetic and remorseful, "Sherlock Holmes - has been raped, sir. There is clear evidence of this. Whoever did this to him is one evil devil."

In the first 24 hours Holmes got no better and didn't wake. After the initial arrival he was moved to the Intensive Care Unit in the left wing of the hospital where he wouldn't be disturbed by other patients. Watson stood by; refusing to leave hospital grounds when visiting hours were over. During the 24 hour period, Mary Morstan made an unexpected visit and came in wearing a grey frock dress and a shawl. Watson gave her a quick embrace as they stood facing each other in the ICU. "What happened?" She asked, clear concern in her voice. "Is he all right?"

"No, Mary. He is not. We're not even sure if he'll wake - let alone pull through."

"But - what happened?"

Watson didn't really have the heart to explain. Even thinking about it was too painful. Yet he couldn't help but think back on the house where they had rescued him from. The peeling walls. The macabre stains of blood decorating the walls incessantly in drabs of full spillages that pillaged the floor in gross quantities. Patrick's slumped form adorning the bedroom floor like a fat, withered slug.

He made light on Holmes's injuries. But she seemed most sympathetic. "Get him home." She said, "you're a doctor. You know how to take care of him. This hospital would be no better in treating him. And besides, maybe once he's home, he'll recover quicker on his own?"

Mary left for home not much later, leaving Watson to weigh the matter up.

_Take him home -_

Convincing the head doctor to discharge Holmes was another matter entirely. Though it was not a legal obligation to stay, the head doctor and boss of St. Margaret's hospital looked down on the matter. "He won't have around-the-clock supervision." He said curtly, his lean face shadowing into a disapproving grimace.

"I can provide that," Watson retorted, trying to keep from getting angry, "you see, Holmes isn't your average patient. He'll hate this place once he wakes up - and may even have a relapse. He'd feel both safer and more comfortable at home! I know him as if he were my own brother! The moment he comes around he'll have a fit. I demand that I take him home! I am a doctor! Prescribe his medicine and I can assure you that within a week he'll be awake and on the mend!"

"If he dies, Dr. John Watson," the man reprimanded in an ugly tone that oozed doubt, "it'll be on your head. And it may even give you a prison sentence and a black mark on your doctor's record for negligence and gross misconduct."

"I'm prepared to take that risk."

* * *

Fours days ago, on a particular sunny day, Holmes sat on his plush armchair rewinding Watson's pocket watch. Today's newspaper lay spread out across his food encrusted table with the headlines; 'Killer leaves a trail of blood,' circled in ink. "What are your adventures today, Watson?" Holmes asked casually as he placed the watch down on the paper and then scrounged around for his syringe lying malignly on the bookstand close to the dirty window. Mrs. Hudson had so far refused to clean the windows on account that Holmes kept threatening to try out a new powder on her that brought about sleep at the merest touch. Frightened, the nanny had refused to clean up after him. In Holmes's defense, all he muttered were the choice words; "I was only bluffing."

"Why? So you can follow us?" Watson returned, answering his question, though he was already agitated as soon as he had walked in, "last night all you did was stalk us. For the life of me I can't think why. You're jealous, I know. But now you're scaring Mary. And honestly, I think you're more nuts than I've ever realized."

"I'm not jealous of her." He said, flicking his inquisitive eyes up at his.

"Don't fool with me. I only came to warn you, Holmes. Leave us alone."

He fondled with the syringe already loaded with cocaine. Watson had lost track with how much he injected himself with. Whatever it was, it was more than three times a day now. "I just thought I'd tell you that I'm close to picking up the lead of this killer," Holmes continued, darting his gaze away from Watson's angry eyes, "Earlstone Cross. Heard of it?" He paused, but didn't get a reply. He grimaced in disappointment. "People have reported a neighbor going out in the middle of the day and only returning late at night. He once invited a woman over to stay apparently. She was never seen coming out again."

"I'm sure that house has more than one door." Watson sighed in exasperation, "maybe she used the back one, or she's probably still there knitting or something."

"Or dead." Holmes leaned forward and rolled up his flimsy white sleeve. Watson turned away at this point, fed up of seeing Holmes inject himself. "I'm going over there tonight. All clues and my observations have led me to this point. There are no other leads."

"Fine. Then go. But after you solve this case, stay away from me and Mary. If we bring up a family, I don't want you and your weird ideas in the picture." And that was the last thing Watson said before departing. On that very same day, the light morning turned suddenly cold and demoralizing. Watson visited Mary but instead of enjoying her company he felt a sense of wrong in the air and also terribly regretted saying those things to Holmes. He must have hurt his partner deeply, yet Holmes never spat back in rage. He must have taken it all in without a word of spite.

Later, when Holmes did not return (Watson returned back to 221B Baker Street to check after twelve at night that Holmes had never come back), it was then that Watson raised the alarm. For three days - three long, pain-ridden days Holmes never turned up or could not be found anywhere. No trace of him could be picked up, not even by the police dogs.

Earlstone Cross, Holmes' parting destination, had been thoroughly examined. Even the house later coming into light with full involvement had nothing suspicious to hide. A young man with a shiny moustache and long wheat colored hair had answered the door and allowed them inside. Sadly they never checked upstairs, believing all to be well. It was only when a woman reported having heard screaming inside that very house and gunshots two days later that they had found Holmes near death.

Watson could only imagine what had gone on inside that house of horrors, for that was what Lestrade and his team of officers, including Clarky were now calling it.

It had been on the front of yesterday's newspaper. The top paragraph read;

'_House Of Horrors. Written by Pete Narl. _

'_Early this morning a detective was rescued from a pit of horrors. A regular house in Earlstone Cross had been holding devious secrets. The latest murders have led to the solution of a man named Patrick Omen who was found dead on the scene. Suicide is the believed verdict of his death. An autopsy is being carried out later tomorrow. His victims have been identified and their families notified. This shocking horror have left many people shocked, and no one suspected Patrick of such despicable crimes.'_

Watson had no desire to read the rest of it. It made him feel uneasy.

He closed the paper and threw it onto the fire burning healthily in the hearth. He watched the pages curl and crisp jovially in moments. The sparks flared up wonderfully like firecrackers, only to blacken and burn.

Holmes had been successfully and carefully transported from the hospital back into his room. Outside had been brisk and cold, so Watson had kept him well wrapped up at all times. Even Mrs. Hudson was concerned and flittered back and forth providing blankets, basins of warm water and hot water bottles.

Watson himself hid away Holmes's pipes, his packets of tobacco and his syringes, more for peace of mind. Holmes would likely be too weak to even attempt to rise from the bed.

"But he was in that evil, wretched house for three days," Mrs. Hudson pointed out as she eased in another hot water bottle against Holmes's bandaged chest that was sore with stitches, "three whole days! How did he survived?"

"This is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about." Watson murmured, not really in the mood to talk. Still he had not slept. And he had been crying for so long and so hard that he was completely dry of tears. Though he did wonder himself. One day was bad enough. But three? Unless Patrick, being as sick and as mad as he was, kept Holmes alive on purpose. It was clear that the detective's body was riddled from ample bruising by way of torture. Nothing less. And on that fateful day with Holmes approaching the evil house still high on his latest dosage of cocaine and not being as fit as he was (he had had an earlier bout of sickness and lost a severe amount of weight that even to this day he hadn't regained) he must have been considerably outmatched. Though Holmes was a great man, both intelligibly and physically at times, he was by no means invincible.

"Time will tell." Watson stroked a hand through Holmes's messy locks of dark hazel hair. The detective hadn't stirred. The doctor pressed gentle fingers on his thin wrist. His pulse remained worryingly weak and erratic.

"Is there anything more I can do?" Mrs. Hudson asked, stepping back slightly.

"No, thank you." Guilt. It came, ebbed and grated like pain. Never leaving - and could never be remedied completely away. "I'm sorry – Holmes."

* * *

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3 Scared

**We All Fall Down**

**By Dib07**

**Summery: **Holmes goes missing and when Watson finds him in a psycho's house, he finds his partner rattled, confused and badly hurt. But with Holmes catatonic, no one knows for certain what went on inside that house. R rated. Warning inside with disclaimer.

Rating: 17+ **Teen**

**Warning: **Contains blood, mentions of rape and dark themes.

**Keep in mind that the characters write themselves! I just tell them when to type!**

**Added Warning: This story MAY contain spoilers from the film. If you have not watched it yet I have warned you! And if you don't like blood or adult/dark themes then read at your OWN RISK!**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any other character in this fanfiction. This story is purely for fun!

Dib07; So sorry for lack of updates! I know excuses are no good. If only we didn't all have to work for a living! Otherwise I would happily write this sort of stuff all day without worry! An incredible thank you to; KravenV. Dude, if it wasn't for your push, this may have never been submitted this year! I haven't forgotten this story and I never purposely abandon fics though it may seem like it. Heck I LOVE the new Sherlock Holmes and thoroughly anticipate the sequel coming this Christmas. Man, what a wait! Anyhoo, on with the show! And I do have lots of plans for this fic! I crammed everything I could into this though it may start off sluggish!

This chapter is for KravenV

...

**Chapter 3:**

**...**

Having Holmes away from the hospital may have been John Watson's biggest mistake. Their bond being as strong as it was foresaw this. Watson and Holmes had done many things together, including their devious adventures that took them to the most loathing of places through thick and thin, thus only making their friendship stronger. It was this that made the doctor so protective of Holmes.

Possessive? Maybe, considering Watson couldn't stand the thought of Holmes being prodded and examined by other doctors and nurses.

Gingerly, Watson checked the small detective's head wound. The gash along his feverish forehead had been stitched though the skin on and around the area was swollen with dappled bruises. The concussion was a bad one if it had so far kept Holmes in the clutches of unconsciousness.

His chest was heavily bandaged as forewarned. Watson hadn't a chance to look at his injury under there just yet, but he would when the gauze needed changing. As for the rest of Holmes's injuries - Watson would confront that when the time came.

He remembered how Dr. Winson had looked at him remorsefully back in the hospital. Before the kind man had even admitted to anything of what his eyes told, Watson already feared the news.

"_There__'__s one more thing, sir, Sherlock Holmes - has been raped. There is clear evidence of this. Whoever did this to him is one evil devil.__"_

The anger returned to Watson. He bolted upright from the bed and kicked back a table full of cutlery and journals. They spilled to the floor; making an ungodly racket. The chaos he had just created didn't satisfy his lust for destruction however. The hate rose up like a deadly fever.

The startling noise sadly didn't stir a dying Holmes.

"Good God!" His words echoed lifelessly about the room that had became empty. Too big. And too dead.

The hours wept by like the rain kissing the window panes. Watson did as the hospital nurse had told him. Dabbing his cut on the forehead with an antiseptic solution, he then injected a light dose of morphine and a generous dose of adrenaline into a vein in Holmes's arm after applying a cotton swab against the small bleeding hole he had made. Once that was done, Watson turned Holmes so that he lay on his undamaged side and tried to get him to wake. The adrenaline would soon kick-start his frail system and if all went well, Holmes would rouse.

Keeping his mind and his hands busy, Watson performed ministrations by rubbing Holmes's cold hands and face. His hand stroked his wild, black hair. Then he worked his way down Holmes's blanketed back by massaging him slowly. Contact. That was what Holmes needed.

For now Watson tried to ignore the detective's forming cyanosis that had formed on his extremities. Hopefully in time, the problem would right itself.

"Come on, Holmes. I need you. You've been away with the fairies for long enough. I'm getting lonely." He wasn't quite sure what else to do but continue methodically massaging his colleague's tender, prone form and talking about anything in general.

Anything in fact for his dear friend to come back to.

"You know, Holmes," he said sadly, tracing the smaller man's jaw line with his finger, "I didn't mean it when I spoke to you harshly before. About your weird ideas and you stalking me and Mary. It's been hard on you since me leaving. It's been no fun without you around. It's just that - Mary pushes me away from you. And makes me say those awful things to you because - because I'm trying too hard to please her. And it's making me unhappy. So - so I'm sorry."

His colleague stirred. It was a small thing. A twitch of the eyes, followed by a floundering breath hitching in his chest. A tremor of a smile tinged Watson's lips.

"She's probably at home right now, twiddling her thumbs and thinking about how to steal me back," he continued, his delicate fingers working their way up and down Holmes throat in gentle massages, "it's ironic and sad really, how selfish girls can be. You should know! You chase Irene Adler all the time but you're still no close to tagging her back in your games. Come on, old boy. I miss you."

He watched with gratification as Holmes's fingers moved very slightly in his hold. His eyelids flickered. His breathing escalated a little too quickly for Watson's comfort.

"Hey, Holmes. Easy, it's me. You're safe." He stroked his twitching hand. He had no idea what mental state his friend would be in. "Everything's going to be okay -"

"Wa-ss-son -"

The doctor squeezed his friend's limp, cold hand harder. "Yes it's me, old boy. Can you open your eyes for me?"

Upon request the detective's dark eyes were revealed behind fluttering eyelids that kept closing again - as if the very strain of waking was too much of an effort to bear. "Wher - am I?" His voice was croaky almost beyond recognition. He buried deeper into his pillow, his breaths wheezing pensively in and out of his injured chest.

"Back at home in comparative safety!" Watson said cheerily, keeping contact at all times with him, "I'm going to be looking after you." His sight left Holmes for a moment as he grabbed a cup of already prepared medicine. It was a vital, strong dose of antibiotics that was imperative to his recovery.

"He's - he's coming -"

"Holmes? Sorry, I can't hear you." He leaned in closer, medicine in one hand.

"- Coming - n-not s-safe -"

"Shhh. We're safe. Now chin up - that's it. You must drink this." Watson pressed the rim of the cup to Holmes's lips. Not having the strength nor the energy to scuffle away, all Holmes could do in his defense was to moan like a helpless infant. "Please - your stubbornness will kill you one of these days." He was about to force Holmes's mouth open when he finally sipped it down. Moments however after taking the dosage, he blinked torpidly past Watson as if the room was not his own.

"Are t-the win - dows - locked? Draw - c-curtains - Wa - s-on. Lock - doors -"

Watson frowned and laid a comforting hand on the shivering man's scrawny shoulder through the many warm blankets. "Holmes? Easy. No one's coming! There's no need! Besides, who on earth would? Lestrade, do you mean?"

But Holmes continued on the illusion that someone was coming for them. His eyes flickered to and fro in anxious stares. Though he was much too weak to do anything, let alone worry himself, he was trying to control the situation. "Not - s-safe -"

Watson hugged him gently. Holmes must have got hit on the head harder than expected. "Holmes, I know you're tired but I must get some more medicine down you, so please relax and try to calm down! You aren't doing yourself any favors!"

He went to grab a flask of water. When his hands searched the nightstand, there was none. In his anguish, John must have drunk it all while presiding over his inert friend through the hours that bled.

Cursing softly, Watson patted his comrade on the shoulder one last time before apologizing and saying that he had to go and get some water.

"Have - o - move - g-g-get 'way -"

Watson was sure that his verbal assurances were falling on deaf ears. Either way, the water was more important for now. Leaving the rueful chamber, he hurried downstairs and into the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson was tidying up the flour on the floor from her last bout of cooking with a broom.

"You'll need a dustpan and brush to do that." He told her unconsciously as he filled the flask up with water.

"I know how to clean." She said. Her eyes took in his flustered, unkempt appearance. "Getting much sleep, Watson?"

"No. Can't."

"Of course you can. He's not able to go anywhere, is he?"

"He's awake." His words rushed out in a blurry of haste that foretold how tired he was. "I can't leave him."

"Awake? Well I better cook something for him then!"

Choosing not to hear her, Watson clambered up the steps of the stairs almost two at a time. The landing ticked venomously from the grandfather clock that dominated the stricken silence with glee.

Having left Sherlock's door already open, Watson stepped on in, carefully holding the flask. What he did not count on was Holmes's sudden reaction. For upon the doctor's return, the detective leapt upright in bed and threw his arms up as though to shield his face from projectiles. A holler; or rather a weakened scream, escaped his throat. Watson darted forwards, almost dropping the flask he had so gently cradled.

Putting it down on an adjacent table littered with broken hourglasses and a vase of dead weeds, he stopped short of the bed and held his arms up, feigning surrender.

"Holmes, it's me. John. Look at me, go on. What are you so afraid of?"

Holmes tried to look at him behind the shelter of his arms. His rasps of breath were loud and sounded very sickly. "Wat-son?"

"Yes. I'm going forward now." _Dear Queen of England! He's going to tear open his wounds if he agitates himself!_

Thankfully, and rather obediently, Sherlock lowered his arms, yet still regarded him with terror in his eyes.

Why, why was he still so frightened? The morphine rendered all the pain from his injuries into slumber, so he surely couldn't be panicking over the hurt when it couldn't be there?

Watson firmly pulled Holmes towards him and gently slipped him back into bed. Then, retaking his chair, Watson held up a hand. "How many fingers am I showing?"

Holmes was still trying to look past him, at the door. _It's aggravating him beyond belief, _Watson thought tiredly.

"Um -" John gave him time for his befuddled mind to take in the question. Even so, Holmes was incoherent and too mesmerized with the exit behind his friend. "D-oor - seven?"

"No. A hand can't possibly have more than five!" He stopped himself. The last thing he needed was to get angry at him. It wasn't fair. "Now, for the water, then the antibiotics."

"He lay - t-tortured - not him -"

Watson administered the medicine and the water in turn before tucking him back up. He had no idea what Holmes was jabbering half the time - but he was simply so jovial and appeased that his dear friend had roused to a degree of consciousness. This was progress.

Now, with the medicine over and Watson stroking his shaking hand, the wounded detective was starting to drop into a doze. It was still too frustratingly early to even attempt to ask (or rather demand of him) what went on in Patrick's house. Watson thought up countless scenarios but they were all fantasized. Only Holmes knew. And - it was also possible that mentioning the house so soon would fluster and panic the detective further.

"Holmes, how are you feeling now?"

"You're a d-doctor - you t-t-tell me -"

"Well, at least you have established that! I am a doctor indeed!" He tried to smile. It felt so obviously fake that it hurt more to lift up such a plastic expression.

What John did not count on, was Mrs. Hudson. She came through without knocking on the open door or even announcing her presence with her voice. A tray in her hands like usual, she flittered into the room in confident routine. Holmes would have hit the ceiling if he hadn't been so weak and emaciated. Instead he tried to lunge off the bed, the shock of her presence causing him to gag. John bolted forwards to catch him.

"Oh dear," the woman said, "he is bad, isn't he?"

"Get out!" Watson screamed at her, "get out now!"

She couldn't run any faster if she tried. Still holding the tray, she galloped out like an enraged pony. But Watson didn't see her leave. But it was too late. Holmes had just vomited everything, including the medicine Watson had worked so hard to get down him. And either due to the shock or his own feverish weakness, Holmes had fainted.

Lestrade was waiting for him at the front door. His face was as stern as it always was. His eyes tiny and black. "How is the detective, doctor?" Was the first thing he asked.

"By what do I owe this unprecedented visit?" Watson returned, ignoring Lestrade's innocent inquiry completely.

"The autopsy sir, the results have come back from the lab." He paused, watching John's reaction with intrigue. "And I thought you might like to know about the various clues we've summed up from the house o' horrors, sir. A rogue detective, gone by the name of Sebastian Summer, has gone about the signs and how the murders may have taken place."

Watson nodded, a little dumbfounded. "Please, step inside."

"With pleasure."

Outside, the afternoon was a warm one with the sun shining high and brilliant in the dusty clouds. When Lestrade entered and the door closed behind him, he became aware of new smells, most of which weren't duly unpleasant. It was the stench of chemicals used at hospitals, such as ammonia, chlorine and various antiseptics.

"Tell me." John asked. His eyes were grim and determined, but beneath them were shadows of lost sleep.

"Well, Patrick Omen, the alleged killer, had been dead. For far longer than the age on Holmes's wounds. I'd say by a day - maybe more."

"And?" Watson was skeptical. "Maybe he was killed by a victim - say in self defense? Earlier than we expected, correct?" Lestrade remained silent. "And Holmes -"

"Exactly. Who stabbed and molested Holmes?"

"Don't say that word!" He snapped.

"What word?"

"Molested!"

"Oh. Right you are, sir."

"And what other clues were there by this - this novice detective?" Watson shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, his mind working away at the news he had just been given.

"Various struggles in the house - that is all that he could confirm and not who did the struggling. Sir, the clues surrounding Patrick make him less and less of the killer that we initially thought, sir. And since Holmes is the only survivor currently alive, he -"

"What? He - what?" Watson felt his own voice roar above his threshold.

Lestrade's eyes met his with no fear in them. Only pity. "Holmes - could be a suspect - sir."

He laughed then. Loud and forced. Lestrade stood patiently like a doctor often does when he tells the family that their loved one is dead and all they can do is cry. And he stands, and waits.

"Impossible." Said Watson at last, "this is Sherlock we're talking about! He's -" _Dying. _"full of wounds that were inflicted by another! And we all know him! He isn't like that - at all! In our investigations I've never seen him hurt anyone except in self defense!"

"Your evidence is on thin ice." Lestrade said, sounding more and more malicious after every word, "he contends in illegal fighting matches, does he not? He is strong and calculated. Knows how to -"

"What, kill? No. Only how to cripple or count out an enemy so that they can't return a fight - but never kill! You know this too!"

"I'm only doing my job - and to warn you, sir." He tipped his trilby hat slightly before turning to the door. "Goodbye, for now, doctor."

"Wait -" He grabbed his shoulder just as Lestrade opened the door, "what if we all hear Holmes's side of the story? He is the only survivor and sole witness to the brutality of that house! He is everything on this case!"

"That is true, yes. So long as his story is solid and consistent with what evidence we have, he may be off the hook altogether. I'm sorry for troubling you with this, Watson. I know you're suffering. Please - take care of him."

With the information having seeded itself in Watson's head and now steadily growing into worried ideas and notions, he hugged Holmes closely that evening - protectively - as the cold night waned. Holmes's breathing was shallow and wheezy. Each inhalation sounded harder than before.

Sometimes John would succumb to sleep - only lightly - and would quickly rouse and be fully alert if Holmes coughed or moved - even by the slightest in case something may be wrong or even the methodical sounds of his breathing had changed.

Still, the very idea of Holmes being a suspect was diabolical!

Later – later Watson would try to get it out of him – what happened in there. He wondered if Holmes could take it. The questions.

And the fear of embarking on the path of bad memories that was too fresh to reverie in...

**TBC**

_Does Watson follow through with the interrogation?_

_What is upsetting Sherlock so badly?_

_Who is the killer?_

_And what will Mary think when she finds Watson back to spending all his time with his old friend?_

_Will Lestrade wait or follow through with the evidence that he has?_

Find out next time in the following chapters!


	4. Chapter 4 Too Fragile

**Dib07**: Okay, please, please forgive me! This story has needed an update for too long I know, and yes, in case you were wondering, I feel terrible. It isn't fair to leave this story on the rocks when I had SO much going for it, and when all of you wonderful readers were enjoying it. I only request now that you review, requesting more of this, in case there is still a demand. I need to know what you all think, and if this story isn't a lost cause. If you want more, I WILL give it. But right now, I really need the feedback to know if it's worth updating anymore. If so, I will update regularly, and the story itself will be an improvement. I've read my last three chapters, and to me they have aged, and my writing wasn't as good then. At least this chapter is a massive improvement to what I had written in comparison. All in all, here it is, please, please enjoy.

luckypixi: hope you are still reading this! I like Watson's opinions too, and how he feels in regards to Holmes' feelings.

Anna: Please tell me you are still reading this!

MadTeaLady: Please forgive me! And hope, HOPE you will enjoy this update. :)

Lafawin: Yup!

sparkycola1: I like Mycroft too, especially in the new film. I'll try and fit him in later - there is room in the script. I think Sherly might need the motivation!

XXX

**Chapter 4: Too Fragile**

The sun gleamed in through the dusty curtains that had seen better days. Mrs. Hudson did well to avoid Sherlock's room and all of his possessions when necessary. It was a chaotic clutter in all and would take a week to clean out for an invalid to move around in. Though Watson's old room was no longer in use, the doctor decided to place Holmes in his old living place instead, and set up a bed for him to sleep in. There would be much more space without having to worry about clutter and crusty dishes sticking to the carpets.

John rolled out an old wheelchair from the lounge downstairs, opened it up and inspected it for rust and damage. It was clean and passed his studious inspection. The leather padding on the arms and seat of the chair were intact and not chewed by Gladstone. Happy with it, Watson rolled it forwards and parked it beside the bed opposite the chair he constantly used as a bed himself. The chair was his daily roost where he discerned Holmes who rested frequently through the day in his sorry state. However, things were to be looking up. The sun was bright and warm for London. The wind was nonexistent and even when he opened the far window, not a single breeze lifted a strand of hair on his head.

He went back to Holmes and awoke him gently. It was time to get him more active and treat those wounds. While Sherlock did indeed rouse (and of course startled when he grabbed hold of consciousness), Watson smiled gently and helped him up by easing one hand down his back while the other hand cradled the back of his head. Watson tried to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat. "Good to meet you once again, Holmes. It's all right. It's just you and me in my room."

Holmes' lips moved ever so faintly, yet no breath of voice ignited. His eyes squinted in the measurable daylight and Watson could feel him sharply trembling in his firm hold. For some inconsolable reason, the detective seemed to be displeased at being touched. Now this had never happened before. True, John and Sherlock were good friends who didn't mind giving each other a slap on the back now and then or hugged each other when a great case was solved, but even if John had touched him kindly in open friendship, Holmes had always honored the touch. He never trembled or shied away from it. Ever.

It was a struggle to not show how worried he felt inside. As he lifted him, Sherlock looked increasingly frantic and upset as if Watson's very hands were covered in blood.

"Holmes, speak for me. How do you feel this morning?"

He raised Holmes upward slowly, carefully watching his partner's countenance for signs of pain, primal discomfort or faintness. His bleak eyes, watery and anguished, darted often to his own eyes, as if constantly reassuring himself that Watson was still before him, as real as life itself.

"Holmes?"

He at last delivered a weedy look in John's direction. This was not like him at all. He was always one-minded in things, even menial tasks like breakfast. He was always on a mission, and did everything with dutiful precision; a woman's touch if you will. Yes he was messy. Not finely tuned in all aspects in the house. But his actions were never opaque or foggy or without motivation of some kind. The Holmes he had in his arms didn't look anything at all like that. He looked frail, lost and without a purpose. Like an orphan in a strange house. His eyes, sunken and unclear, were weepy. Always weeping, like a bleeding wound without pain. And even now, in the sturdy daylight and the warmth of the room, his small body shook as though it were winter.

Watson took a breath, then swallowed and wondered how else to engage him. It was a game he was more than ready to play. He was still over the moon that his partner was alive. Healthy as a sick dog, but still alive.

"Holmes," he tried again, "Mrs. Hudson is making breakfast soon. What would you like to eat? Some toast? Eggs? Some juice? Maybe an omelet with a bit of porridge?" He waited. Painfully waited. It was like being poised for the bus. Sherlock's watery eyes sought his for a fleeting moment, his thin chest rising and falling as awkwardly as it had always done since leaving the hospital. Sometimes his lungs hitched and he would wheeze for a few moments as if the air had got caught in his bruised throat. "Sherlock." John tried sadly, using his birth name in a soft, despairing whisper, "I'm going to get you out of this bed and into the wheelchair. Then I'm going to get you a bit of breakfast to wake you up a little. How about some hot tea? That'll warm you up."

The detective took a short, sudden breath, his face flinching at the pain it must have caused. He assertively glanced at the open window at Watson's back, blinking owlishly in the light. "No… no bars…" He managed at long last.

Watson smiled despite the fact that he couldn't quite make out what his partner meant. "No bars?"

"On the window, there. No… no bars at all." His words drawled out of his lips in dry, raspy fragments that reminded Watson of autumn leaves rolling in chilly October winds. He sounded as poorly as he looked.

_No bars._ Patrick Omen's house, the one he had been trapped in for three days had bars on all of its windows and doors. The whole house had been one massive cage with no discernable exit. Some of the bars had been slick with old blood. Blood…when it dried…went a rusty, burgundy color. Like brick dust.

"No, no bars." Watson went to cup his hand around his partner's scratched face in a wishful effort to help Holmes relax. It only did the opposite, producing an undesirable effect. Upon seeing Watson's hand rise in the corner of his sight, Holmes went reeling backwards as if the doctor wielded a dagger. His shoulders met the headboard and there he remained, as though paralyzed. Watson apologized limply, not accustomed to this behavior.

"Holmes, it's only me." He sighed at the pure frustration that he couldn't do anything to help directly. It was clear that his dear friend was deep in the footholds of shock, which was deadly. But there was a way to help him out of it, and that was good care. "I'm going to help you into the wheelchair now, and then I'll bundle you up in blankets. You ready?" He was met by a brief, frightened nod.

Rolling the wheelchair forwards, Watson parked it directly beside the bed; sideways, ready to receive its new patient. Sherlock set his shadowy eyes on the contraption in suspicious doubt as if John was about to pull him down into watery, piranha-infested depths.

The detective, frail, small and thin, was easy to move from bed to chair. Having been starved for three solid days, and even then having been terribly anorexic even before the Patrick incident, he was all bone and not much else.

Sherlock, still shivery, didn't so much as bleat a protest as Watson carefully lowered him into the chair with the detective's thin arms around his neck. Once this feat was accomplished, Sherlock dropped his arms back down and discerned the arms of the wheelchair in mortal anxiety. Watson grabbed a full length blanket and tucked it around Holmes' lean shoulders. "Better buy you some thicker sleeping garments too, I propose." Watson muttered more to himself. "The ones you have on now aren't warm enough."

"Yes, they are rather… stolid."

Watson's secret smile grew larger still at hearing Holmes reply, even if the subject of sleeping garments was hardly worth getting excited over. The fact that he was responding of his own accord was real good news.

Watson grabbed another blanket, slapped the dust out of it, and neatly arranged it over Holmes' legs. Again the touch made the smaller man flinch and tense, his eyes fixing on the doctor's hands as if they had turned into grenades. His panic grew every time he was in contact with another. The doctor noticed how much his eyes grew large and staring, gaped like holes. Watson wanted more than anything to throw his arms around him and embrace him right there. Take his shivering body into his and whisper into his ear that it would be all right. That everything in time would go away. The memories. The pain. Everything. But he didn't, though his body was on the edge of going to him. Sherlock might even scream or break down, evidently not ready for such contact.

Now that he was safely secured in the wheelchair, Watson wheeled him out of the room and through the dank hallway where the cooking smells of early breakfast wafted down the corridor. The odors made John's stomach growl attentively.

He wheeled him over to the back of the house and opened the door that led out onto a sunny porch where dead weeds in their pots dangled their leaves onto the deck. He steered the wheelchair two meters from the open doorway and applied the wheelchair brakes. He wouldn't actually take him outside. Warm or not, Holmes was far too fragile to be taken outside by any means. But here, he was close enough to feel the invigorating fresh air and feel the sun on his pale, milky white skin while being in the warmth of the house.

Watson turned to the front of the wheelchair to confront his sickly companion. "You're going to have some breakfast, and then I'll give you a checkup. Make sure you are still breathing, after all. Then a bath I think is in order." He took a moment to consider asking Holmes about the house. The name of the killer he could perhaps ask as an easy starter. But Holmes was in a right state, and didn't look mentally able. Was it too early to ask about the case? Or would he reiterate what had happened in but one silken breath with ease?

But each time he hesitated, the seconds weighed up against it, and he turned the idea down. He would. Oh yes. He'd ask Sherlock gently to confess what had gone on. Doing it as sensitively as he could like one might interrogate a traumatized child. It was the safest bet.

A cup of tea was brought from the kitchen, filled with soothing herbs to help one sleep and relax. Watson placed it on a little coffee table after pulling it along the wonky floorboards so that it was close to Sherlock's left-hand side for easy convenience. Beside the china cup of hot, steamy tea was a bowl of warm, easily digestible oatmeal. Watson knelt before his sick comrade and clasped his cold, pallid hands in his. The moment contact was made, Holmes jerked as if to get away. But he was fastened on both sides by armrests. He made no move to go anywhere, anyway, but a spurt of hot blood jettisoned from his nose which made Watson start. "God Almighty!" Watson felt his own blood draining from his face. Sherlock, evidently aware of the blood gushing down his nostrils, went to touch it with his fingers in numb curiosity. Watson plunged his hand down his left breast pocket to grab his handkerchief that was patterned in a mix of red and white hexagons. He went forwards, and not caring for Holmes' reactions, held the handkerchief against the stem of the blood flow. "Open your mouth and breathe." He tried not to appear so worried, not an easy thing. Sherlock looked none the worst, but his skin was etched white, like snow.

The blood flow did stop, after it had soaked Watson's handkerchief. Mrs. Hudson, after hearing Watson cry the Lord's name, came quickly to see if everything was all right. She was very patient with Sherlock, even though they had their differences, and under normal circumstances would have sneered at each other. But today was a saddened shade of rue and unspoken comradeship. Sherlock, dazed and clammy, remained seated and didn't begrudge Mrs. Hudson's help. Between her and Watson, they cleaned his visage of gore. After this, the oatmeal had to be re-warmed on the stove, but the tea was still pleasantly hot. Watson helped his partner drink it down. It was a small victory.

Though the doctor was no detective, he had had quite a few lessons from Sherlock Holmes himself. As the small detective drank down the tea in comfortable, weary silence, eyes almost drawn shut; Watson looked at his healing head wound. Then his gaze trailed down to his chest where the worst of his injuries had been made. The head fracture had been enough to give Holmes a concussion, which meant there had been a violent struggle between him and the foe in this house. Holmes had clearly lost. Possibly the assailant had bashed the detective on the head with a sharp, heavy object. Possibly a large tome book or a candle holder or even a small wooden chair. Anything was lethal when used with force. Holmes' wrists, thin and bony like the rest of him, was bruised and reddened with what looked like rope marks. So, if he had been unconscious, the killer would have tied him up to an immovable object, like a radiator or iron bar fixed to the wall. His chest; broken and bruised, may have been the further result of a struggle. Again possibly done with something like a brick (the doctor at the hospital had said the front of his chest had been smashed from blunt trauma). And then, left in darkness, possibly for a day or two, Holmes was left with these bleeding wounds and shattered ribs. Would he have screamed for help? Or had stubbornly kept silent, aware with intelligible clarity that his life was at an end? And then… the killer… might have…

"Watson…" Holmes, finished with the tea (he had only managed a quarter of the drink) had leaned back in his chair, evidently looking sicker. A fresh skin of oily perspiration fringed his forehead. "You've acquired no sleep, h-have you? And you've been w-weeping."

Watson was aware of the ending stutter. Holmes had never stuttered in his life, or gone about as such. "How do you mean?" He asked quietly. He went out to touch his hand in support, then thought better of it.

"I took note of the shadows beneath your eyes and your atrocious, unkempt clothing. You've been sleeping in that same uniform, I do believe. Also," he nodded over at the dresser table four feet to his left, "I see the steady encumbrance of your tea cup collection on the dresser surface. You've been coming and going into this room, regarding the view from this very window. There are enough boot prints here on the floor to suggest that much at least." To confirm this, he looked over at the doctor's shoes. But the moment he did so, he blanched as if he had just seen something truly horrific. He didn't moan or flinch, however he did cover his face with both bruised hands. Watson, puzzled, frowned at his partner's reaction, but held his tongue. He glanced down at his own shoes to confirm that there was nothing to see. He was wrong on this occasion. There was the subtle skin of blood on the edges of his boots from when he had gone into the house of horrors with the investigation team.

"Forgive me, Holmes. I'm taking them off."

"Quite."

Watson stripped them off at once and proceeded to take them out of the room as though they were snakes. When he next came back, he tried Holmes with a little bit of warmed oatmeal once the fragile detective had calmed down. Holmes miserably opposed, saying that his stomach was most disagreeable with him at present.

"Holmes, you haven't eaten for five days. You can't live like this, and you certainly can't live on tea. Please have a few mouthfuls." Three days he had been trapped in the house, and he couldn't have eaten then. He spent a day in the hospital, then spent a day at home, sleeping. But again, Holmes politely declined Watson's protests. "Food is most improper right now. I feel tired, dear Watson. Please take this old man back to his bed."

His request pulled at Watson most bitterly. To give in would mean another afternoon without nourishment. And force-feeding Holmes wouldn't be a pleasant experience for any of them. "I will, after your bath." He ached to know what had caused Holmes' wounds. The entrapment that went on for so long. And why Holmes was the only one that got out alive. "Sherlock, why does it upset you so when I touch you?"

Holmes' eyes lowered away from his, and there was the obvious evidence of upset as his hands gripped the armrests of the wheelchair. "I'm still sore." Was all he said.

Watson nodded, taking that answer as everything he needed to know for now. But he would keep pressing him here and there. And the ironic thing about Sherlock now, was that the detective loved to digress what he had found out, or the smallest traces of evidence, or the behavior of other people. If he had been in a normal state of mind, Sherlock wouldn't have been able to stop talking for all the things he had seen in that house. But now, in the speckled light of the afternoon, he was as quiet and as delicate as a wounded mouse. And Watson felt terrible. Terrible for not protecting him. For ignoring him before it all happened, and choosing to stay with Mary instead. He would take it all back if God permitted it. But it was nothing but foolish thinking now.

"Holmes?" Watson began again wistfully. Nervously.

"Hmmm?" He didn't raise his head. Instead his pained eyes were fixed on the little garden beyond.

"Do you blame me? For what happened to you?"

"Vulgarity has no fault or blame." It came out as a raspy, thin whisper. "No. You I do not, could not blame. I just wish I had died in that house, dear Watson. All I request now is that you help me die. I require nothing more."

What he had said came out of sudden, and Holmes said it so normally that Watson was too stunned to speak. At first he was scared of what Holmes had confessed. Then it slowly gave way to fermenting anger. How could his partner be so thoughtless and selfish? Anger washed away too, when he saw the gaping sadness in the small detective's eyes and the slow, ragged movements of his chest as he drew breath in and out.

"Holmes…"

* * *

**Dib07:** please review!


	5. Chapter 5 The Next Step

**We All Fall Down**

**By Dib07**

**Summery: **Holmes goes missing and when Watson finds him in a psycho's house, he finds his partner rattled, confused and badly hurt. But with Holmes catatonic, no one knows for certain what went on inside that house. R rated. Warning inside with disclaimer.

Rating: **Teen**

**Warning: **Contains blood, mentions of rape and dark themes.

**Author****'****s Note: **This fan fiction is purely based on the Guy Ritchie film with Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law. I may use quotes from Arthur Conan Doyle's book purely for realism and fun.

**I do enjoy Holmes's and Watson's unique partnership. So this story may contain lemon and fluff.**

**Keep in mind that the characters write themselves! I just tell them when to type!**

**Added Warning: if you don****'****t like blood or adult/dark themes then read at your OWN RISK!**

**XXXXxxxxxxx**

**Dib07: Hi all! Thanks for the HUGE support! I could not have been able to continue this story without you. And I mean that. So a massive thanks to every single one of you! And for those of you who have asked the question: yes, you will get Holmes's complete POV when he was inside that house of horrors! So don't worry! :)**

**I have also noticed that many of you have been reading this since I first posted this story and I do not know how to express my gratitude. Anyway, on with the show! I know you've all been looking forward to the next update! I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!**

**Luckypixi:** Hiya and thanks for your gorgeous review! Hope this update keeps ya going for awhile! :)

XXXxxxxxxxxxxxx

_Chapter 5: The Next Step_

It hadn't been a positive afternoon at all. After hearing Holmes' morbid confession, Watson was wrapped warmly in numb shock for the following hours that sunk into the tethered day. Trying to shake himself loose from the way Holmes was acting was getting him nowhere. So he decided to keep himself busy. He bathed the shrunken detective after Mrs. Hudson filled the tub with hot water. After adding herbs into it, Holmes was gently submerged into chest-deep water. He wasn't the best behaved of patients, and positively panicked during the first five minutes, and this was before he had even got into the bath. This was while Watson was still unchanging him in the bedroom. The doctor, exhausted from having struggled with him both physically and emotionally, decided to leave his garment trousers on, but managed to remove his top.

"You don't touch me." Holmes had almost growled, "I do not desire your help of any kind. You have not my permission!" But he had worn his own self out. After the constant shivering, the alertness from whenever Watson reached for contact, and the restless anguish forever reflected in his deep, hazel irises, he was almost dozing by the time Watson finally managed to get him into the bath. It was therapeutic, cleaning him over. John found. He was careful not to get the bandaging wet, for there was a lot of it strapped cumbersomely around his cadaverous chest. With subtle flickers of his eyes, he memorized the wounds, and particularly the bruises.

"Holmes?" He lifted up the sponge, rinsing its soft interior of creamy soap and bubbly water.

"Yes?" He murmured attentively, eyes hooded.

Watson soaked the sponge in water and drenched it down his friend's thick hazel hair. There was the slightest tinge of red as old blood ran down his hair and into the bath in long, trickling rivulets. Thankfully on this occasion, Holmes was too full of languish to register this at all.

"I really need to find out what happened, in your latest case about that house in Earlstone Coss." Holmes did not wince this time. His eyes widened blearily from his restive state in the tub, and his hawkish stare was piercing. "I want you know why nothing was reported when someone came to that house on the first day of your disappearance. A man answered at the door with shiny, blondish hair and a moustache, Holmes. Yet Patrick did not fit that description. What I don't understand is why the investigators never found anything wrong with the ground floor of that place? And you must have been in there at the time. Why didn't you and all those other victims cry for help?" Holmes continued staring, as if daring Watson to answer his own question. Watson felt impotent for even inquiring into the matter. "Look, Lestrade isn't happy. He isn't convinced about the murders for some reason, and all the clues in there apparently don't add up. He needs your statement as witness and testament to the crime of Patrick Omen. You can tell me now, or you can write it down." Holmes' determined, defiant stare went on for a second later, then something internal must have snapped, for he looked away. "The bars on the windows and doors were still there. The man hadn't removed them, but there is no law telling people not to have such things."

"Didn't the investigation brigade inquire as to their purpose?"

"They did. Lestrade told me it was because of the man's birds, because they were always escaping out of the house. Then the matter was dropped. Besides, I'm the one asking the questions."

"Birds in a cage…" He murmured as though in dream.

Holmes was taken out the bath, and dried in a thick bundle of pre-warmed towels that had been left to hang over the old groaning radiator. After a comfortable silence that was shared between them, Sherlock mumbled, "and what of Mary? Shouldn't you be tending to her?"

"I'll be tending to her soon enough, when I want to. Right now, old chap, it's you who needs my undying attention."

"You're not doing yourself any favors, mother hen."

Watson scrubbed his left cheek a little too roughly, working to get him completely dry from head to toe. The consistent contact on his body, even in a fleeting touch or a firm hold, was working. Sherlock seemed much less jumpy and not as erratic as before. His complaining was also not as resolved as before. But if Watson dared go any further, say going anywhere near his torn loins or stomach, Holmes would react at once as if he had heard the crack of gunshot fire.

Dry and curtly dressed in warm, fresh sleeping garments, he was saddled back in the wheelchair and taken back to bed. Still, he refused to eat, and as tired as he was, Watson had no choice but permit him rest.

Reposing on his side, Holmes curled up in bed, face to the wall. It was greatly revealing by the way he moved that his fresh wounds still gravely hurt, especially the chest area. It was just as well they had a wheelchair; otherwise he wouldn't have been able to walk at all.

"Get some rest, Sherlock." Tenderly he threw the blankets up and over his best friend's ever-so thin shivery form and made sure every part of him was covered except his head, and even then he added a patchwork quilt over the first blanket, ensuring maximum warmth. He wanted his dear partner to say something back. Anything. Even an insult would do. But Sherlock remained ever still and silent.

Folding the wheelchair away, John pulled the curtains towards each other, blocking out the late afternoon daylight. Then he sat by the desk that was only two feet from the bed, and lit a candle. Grabbing a sheet of paper, John began jotting down what he knew from memory with an ink fountain pen. He would definitely go back there – to that old shamble of a house and explore the rooms to greater depth now that he didn't have a detective to immediately worry about quite so much.

He wrote the heading: _house of horrors_, and underlined it three times. He sat and thought for awhile, remembering the newspaper clipping from the day before. It had read; '_The latest murders have led to the solution of a man named Patrick Omen who was found dead on the scene. Suicide is the believed verdict of his death.'_

But who would commit suicide by stabbing themselves in the side with a big, old kitchen knife? Because that was the state they had found Patrick in.

John troubled over his blank bit of paper for some time, and though Sherlock had taught him much on how to go about a crime or crimes, John was none the wiser, and he was emotionally involved in this one. The key was to remain detached, and this was not the case.

An hour passed, and John stood up from the desk, having decided to give it a rest at least until he had had something to eat. It was still evening, and Holmes was sleeping as silently as a dormouse. He hadn't moved an inch from the side he laid upon, tucked up tight in his blankets. The only thing that did move was his steady, labored breathing. He wouldn't be waking for awhile.

Striding into the lonesome kitchen, he sat and ate the leftover sandwiches made yesterday by Mrs. Hudson, but the fillings and the bread itself was tasteless. It wasn't due to the woman's culinary skills. He couldn't even taste the tea he sipped or the coffee he drank. The only thing that kicked his taste buds into stubborn life was the brandy he liberally applied down his throat.

After the scant meal, he plucked his frock coat by the door in a surge of motivation along with an unlit oil lantern. Holmes would sleep in a near-coma for a few good, solid hours. Mrs. Hudson would keep an eye on him, providing enough time for him to go back to Earlstone without having to worry about staying in case he was needed. He would fetch a hansom, and then inspect the scene of the crime at his own pace. It was time to put what he had learned to the test.

The evening was sloping further into the end of the day, making Watson realize that he was setting off at a creepy time to explore a place that had caused Holmes so much hurt. But he didn't let it bother him. He signaled for a cab and a driver with two great white mares came trotting down the cobbled road towards him.

The trip there was quiet and uneventful. Watson tiredly scanned the passage of people that they passed, and resignedly noted the street signs as they progressed into further territory. Once the hansom had stopped, Watson paid the driver a kingly sum before twirling round, cane in one white knuckled hand to face the house they had rescued the detective from and the four other body bags belonging to those less fortunate. The house, dark against the graying sky, looked deceptively normal.

The front garden had been trampled by the feet of frantic policemen and the camera crew as they had rushed in on that fateful day to infiltrate the carnage within. Though the place was mostly deserted by the media, and fenced off from curious loiterers, the local constable on watch was posted by the main entrance of the house like a stooping black eagle in the dim daylight. He gave John a flat nod on approach.

"You doctor Watson?"

"Yes, I am." They kindly shook hands.

"What you doing here then?"

"I've come to have a look inside. May I?"

The constable gave him an odd look as if Watson had requested for a golden chariot. "Whatever for, doctor? This place has been gone over at least twice by teams of investigators and cordoned off until further notice."

"As a favor." Watson persisted, not ready to give up now after pulling up the courage to even make it thus far. "It would really help with my personal investigation. In case you are worried about getting into trouble, you shouldn't be. I'll be in and out in less than thirty minutes. You can time me, if you like."

"I wouldn't even be in there five minutes. Place is haunted, doctor." But he saw that Watson was not leaving. He only looked back at the constable with adamant eyes. "All right. Just be quick, and not a word of this to Scotland Yard. They get funny about these sorts of things, they do."

"Thank you kindly."

He opened the door and that was when normality ended.

It was dark inside, as it was expected to be. There was no one within to live here anymore. And the fetid darkness reminded him of his own childhood fears. Gremlins and trolls did not exist. He knew this perfectly. But he couldn't help but feel that monsters lurked just beyond the line of his sight.

His hand reached up, feeling the cool, clammy wall for support. As his fingers trundled along the surface, he found it to be bumpy and soiled, as though with a substance like paint that hadn't dried properly when it was pasted on. Raising the lantern upwards, he lit a match. He opened the glass cage and lit the oil in the centre. The lantern gleamed into an explosion of silent life. The relief of such storming illumination squashed his quibbling fears and he was able to feel a lot sturdier in his investigation.

Easing the lamp upwards so that its light fanned out, he saw that the wall he had just recently touched had been smeared in blood. Though the blood had long ago dried, its supple texture remained in the flat wallpaper. Watson had seen plenty of blood in his time, but even so, that old feeling of nausea stirred in his stomach. The reason the blood had got so high was because someone had reached up with a bloody hand, and had trailed it across the wall as they limped along towards a bolted door. And no hope of escape.

"What a fine welcome." Watson muttered in the hope to cheer himself up, but he was cruelly mistaken. The moment he opened his mouth and the words tumbled out, they echoed in the sparse loneliness in ghostly flitters. It made his spine fill with ice and made the hair on the back of his neck tingle. He knew it was childish to get scared. When Holmes was on the case, he always kept himself distanced. He got excited yes, but never overly involved or allowed himself to be overcome with grief or emotion that jeopardized his findings.

As he progressed, lantern held firmly out in front of him like a faithful guide dog along with his trusty cane, he saw bars. Lots of thick, fat bars on every window he ever saw or walked past. They were all vertical stripes descending like teeth over any possible exit. It was eerie and made him feel as though he was in a bird cage. Just like Holmes had muttered whilst in the bath.

All the bodies had been recovered since the investigation and intrusion of Scotland Yard, but their chalk outlines remained where the bodies were found. There were two on the carpet in the lounge. One outline was sprawled by the hearth, arms and legs drawn out in a wide display. The other outline was beneath the barred window that would have normally overlooked the front garden. But here too, the window was barred by iron teeth that were mere centimeters apart, which barely gave any room for daylight to shine through. It must have been dark in this house permanently, or at least until the killer decided to reward them with a gas lamp or two.

The first two rooms Watson slowly explored held few clues. Both chambers were rather sparse of furniture. Either that, or most had been taken as evidence and were impounded by the police.

The rooms were cobwebbed, and always that malodorous odor of blood and squalor. The police had done their best to clear the place up a little, (or else face the wrath of neighbors complaining about the stench), but even so, the smell remained.

Upstairs was where much of the butchery went on. The bathroom was the worst of all the rooms. Patrick had chopped off some of his victims limbs and had dumped them in the bath. Watson shone his light in briefly, only enough to see the blood glaring at him through the bathroom curtains and the sides of the bath itself. Blood had once raced down its white enamel sides like tomato soup, and had dried like a relic to the effigy that went on.

John pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and cupped it over his mouth and nose, eyes watering at the increasing stench. His stomach swirled in queasy flutters.

"Oh Holmes…" He couldn't even begin to fathom what it must have been like in here, trapped for three days without food or water. And forced to satisfy the whims of a sick, sadistic killer. He didn't even want to imagine it.

There were two bedrooms. A children's suite, and an adult's chamber next door. Holmes had been found in the adult bedroom, bleeding out onto the floor. So too had Patrick. With a knife firmly wedged in his left kidney.

Watson shone the light rather reluctantly into the fetid darkness of the room. It was like visiting a chamber down in hell. The curtains, having been pulled down by someone's desperate hands, lay in a clumped heap. The bed was soaked with blood and white secretion. Unable to take the bloodied mattress out onto the streets, the police had decided to leave it in its original place, wondering how best to dispose of it. They were going to burn it, and would most likely do it in the back garden once they had the balls to come back in and finish the job.

As much as it emotionally hurt to do this, Watson knelt down onto the blood soaked carpet and ran his fingers lightly over the reddened fibers of the fabric. _Holmes' blood. _He leaned back slightly, not sure if there was anything to find or discover. And the pain of it all was getting too great. He ended up clutching the handkerchief to him as though he were cuddling a toy for comfort. Then, through the glazed tears in his eyes, he saw Holmes' trail of blood lead under the bed. He remembered that the rescue team had in fact rescued him from _under_ the bed. They had to carefully pull him out and the poor detective had been in some distress. He was only half conscious and even that was a push.

Leaning further into the spoiled carpet, Watson peered under the bed and into stagnant darkness. Again his back tingled afresh and he felt truly afraid. If monsters did exist, then they all lived here, in this house and nowhere else in the world.

Gathering up courage and swallowing quickly, Watson pushed the little lantern towards the pit of an abyss. The light evaporated the stifling black under the bed. There was more blood. Holmes must have been unconscious or awake and bleeding all the same for quite a while here. Unmoving. Perhaps he had been too afraid to move? And had hidden?

There, in the darkest, further corner up against the wall where the headboard of the bed was, Watson noticed a clump of material. It rested on the bloody carpet as a dark silhouette against the strident lantern light. Watson reached out for it, stretching out his fingers as he dared himself to go further under the bed. Being a little bigger in stature compared to Holmes, fitting under the bed was quite a squeeze. However, his fingers groped the edge of the object and he successfully grabbed hold of it. But it was not what he expected it to be. It was light and hairy. Like a beard. He brought it up to the light and was a little bewildered to see that it was in fact a disguise. Just like the ones Holmes used. Curious, he turned it over in his hand, but the fake scalp and moustache offered up no further solution. So what was it doing under here, with Holmes no less?

Not liking the bed much, he wriggled backwards and was finally able to straighten himself out again once he was free from the bed underside. He stretched until he felt the kinks in his back pop back into place.

Holding the strange hair piece, Watson tucked it into his pocket, grabbed the lantern and headed out, hating the room more and more with each breath. He didn't care if Holmes would call him a coward, but he wanted out. Maybe he'd return with someone else. He wasn't quite sure who. Mycroft was his best guess. He was as smart as Holmes and he might guess as to what happened, but arguably, the best, simplest of solutions was to get Holmes to talk.

On his way out, he saw something that, from the horror in his mind and the darkness in the house; he had missed. Written in blood under one of the windows on the landing were the scrawled words; _kill us._

Stepping out of that house again, Watson was too shaken to blow out the flame in his lantern, even when he was out of the house and in open air. The constable still stood where he had left him. Even he looked very spooked when his job was to simply guard the entrance.

"You all right, doctor?" He almost squealed. "You were in there a long time. Almost fifteen minutes, I'd say."

It felt like he had been in there for hours. Fifteen minutes did not even warrant him the time to sip down the second round of a drink at a party. Fifteen minutes was all it had been to paralysis him. And he was in the house at the aftermath of it all. Holmes had been stuck in there for far longer during the massacre of living people. Even the shadows of the screaming past terrified Watson to the bone, almost as though the place was now haunted and he could _feel_ it. Everywhere. In the wallpaper. The carpet. The torn curtains. The bars had grinned, he was sure of it. Grinned like lipless teeth. Everywhere.

It was a sordid place to be yes, but even then, why did Sherlock request death? He was free! Wasn't he?

"Doctor?" The constable tried again, this time with more edginess and worry.

"Oh yes, quite. I'm fine, sorry. The stench in there is…overpowering."

"It is. I hope you found what you wanted."

"I didn't, but thanks all the same. Would it be possible to revisit the place at a later date?"

"I'm not sure." He looked uncomfortable. Without the authority of his superiors, he was indecisive and hesitant. "But I reckon they are going to burn this whole house to the ground once they are through with the place and it's given them all the information they need. But doctor, the detective from St. Albans has already given his verdict."

"Yes, that Patrick was the killer and he committed suicide. Pigs could have given me a better result than that." And he left, heading down the steps from the house and the weed infested front garden. It was time to go home. Go home and see Holmes.

XXX

The ride back to 221 Baker Street pushed back the growing nausea much to Watson's relief and he tried to rest on the back seat as the driver took him back into his familiar town. But there was one thing he could not do; he could not relax.

He also knew that he hadn't contacted Mary for a good couple of days now. If he continued, she'd either get angry and storm right in to demand why he had suddenly chosen to vanish from her side, or throw his things out of her home without a further word to discuss.

The haunted house, now a fair distance away, was still a heavy thing in his mind, like real pain. It was always there, rising to his attention and refusing to be forgotten. Just like the odors there. Lingering and thick like perfume that never washed away or like old vegetables rotting in a dank garden.

He threw his handkerchief in the bin as soon as he got back inside, and remembered to remove his shoes as well. It was best to hide where he had been from Holmes. His partner was too damned good at seeing things.

Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen, rinsing a cloth into the sink. Watson came to her first, glad just to be back. "How was he? Is he sleeping like a baby?"

The woman blew out a heavy breath. "He's been sleeping all the time you were out, but he's been crying out in his dreams, John. Also he's got a steady fever. I'm freshening this cloth for him. Those wounds of his are getting infectious, doctor."

"I'll go and see him. Thank you for your help."

XXX

The little candle on John's desk close to the bed had been relit by Mrs. Hudson. It cast a warm, comforting glow across the clean walls where there was no grime or blood. But all the sadness came creeping back.

Overcome with grief, John leaned against the desk, no longer able to support himself. The palm of his hand slapped against the wooden skin of the desk and tears, wet and cold, reawakened in his eyes. He let them fall this time. There was nobody here to see them swell and run gently down his cheeks.

Empty and lost within himself, Watson stepped over to the bed and watched the crippled detective's slumbering profile from behind the watery haze of his eyes.

Gently, so as not to unsettle poor Holmes, the doctor gently got one knee on the bed, followed softly by the other. The thin mattress creaked beneath his added weight, and the whole bed sagged. He poured an arm over Holmes' scrawny body and felt him breathe. He was getting weaker and weaker.

John snuggled his chin in the crook of Sherlock's neck that joined to his shoulder, and there he lay, listening to the detective's wispy inhalations. It was true about the fever. Unhealthy heat was rising deep from within his skin. He was burning up.

Worried, scared and spooked by the house and everything else that was going on, John went to sleep without even realizing it. Mrs. Hudson came back with the cloth and smiled knowingly when she saw John spooning Holmes to him, both of them fast asleep. She carried out her original duty and eased the heat from Sherlock's forehead with the cloth. Then she took herself to bed.

For the rest of the night, Holmes did not cry in his sleep.

* * *

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6 The first clue?

**Dib07:** Hiya again! A very hearty welcome to you all! I'm really, really thrilled with the feedback I have been getting! You make me wanna write these chapters all the faster! I was going to submit this update next week, but it's going so well that I decided I'd do it a few days early instead. :D

**Anon:** Watson's really breaking down emotionally, and he is ignoring the warnings. You're good at spotting this. However, I'd better not give anything away as of yet. The next chapter will be much, much clearer! Slash it up huh? I might if I get some more requests. A lot of readers are quite happy at the moment with their relationship very close, but not sexual yet. However I will be pushing the ratings up anyway because of Holmes' flashback, so we'll see!

**Har Har Har:** LOL. Seriously. I hope you like the waterboarding over there! I hear it's very nice this time of year! XDXDXDXD

**Chapter 6: The First Clue?**

"Well? What is it? Spit it out." She had been standing presentably at the doorstep in one of her feather dresses, the bottom shirt lined with lace while the actual material she wore was dappled yellow and lined with black stitching. Watson had not expected her to come over at all, let alone so early in the morning. Unable to frame a reply just yet, his mind stammered, and so he stood there like a turnip. Hence her question.

"Mary…" He managed through the lump in his throat.

"Yes?" She started again most expectantly. "Are you going to leave me standing on this welcome mat all my life? Or are you going to let me in, John?" Her face was pinched in narrowed suspicion. And so she would be. He hadn't seen her in two days, and had almost entirely forgotten about her in fact. He loved her of course, and hadn't meant to lose track of time, but things happened so fast, as they often did. And before he knew it, day had become night, then night into day again.

"Of course, dear! Ever so sorry! Please come in! Tea or coffee?"

"Coffee, I think. With plenty of milk." She carried a white parasol with her and always kept it closed even if the weather turned nasty. It was more for status than practical use. Perhaps married life had made her see herself as more of a lady. A lady with a good husband. "John," she said again as she came in, the door closing gently behind her, "you look awful, and why haven't I heard from you?"

"It's quite a story. Come and sit down. I am sorry for not contacting you sooner."

Mary gave him a little disheartening look as though she was struggling to believe him. But she didn't speak, not yet anyway.

Watson followed her lead, and they came into the light dining room close to the back door and windows that revealed the same porch he and Holmes looked out across in the bright daylight sunshine only yesterday. Only that seemed like weeks ago now.

She sat down on a dining room chair and tucked herself in, her hefty dress spilling out upon the floor and pooling around her feet. "John?"

In all honesty, he was more than happy to talk to her, even if part of him didn't want to. Half of him wanted her here of course. She was much more opinionated and talkative than Mrs. Hudson, and his wife also proved as invaluable company in times of need. He hadn't really spoken to anybody much since Holmes had been rushed to the hospital. But the other half of him, the one that was tired, loose with fear and flinched away from contact, did not want her here, now. She was intruding. He was busy. He didn't think he contained the necessary energy to appease her while he himself was drowning.

Either way, he sat down most miserably opposite her. Mrs. Hudson poured out the coffees and placed a little plate of rum biscuits in the centre of the table cloth. When the doting nanny had gone, Mary reached out and took his cold hands in hers. She jumped at the frosty feel of his hand, but she didn't draw away. She leaned forward and stared deep into his troubled blue eyes. "What is it?"

"It's Holmes." He gave a short, powerful sigh, heavy enough to ripple the surface of his coffee in its little white cup.

"But I thought everything was fine." She explained, face perplexed and puzzled. "The case was solved by that other detective, was it not? And the killer dead."

She did not know. She did not know anything. She only knew what the newspaper tabloids had told her. She obviously thought Holmes was good and well. John blinked at her a few times, and couldn't bring himself to explain it all in front of her. It was asking too much. So he did the sensible, manly thing, and changed the subject. "I wired for Mycroft to come over less than an hour ago while it was still dark outside before the sun came up. Depending on what hobby he's doing, I'm rather hoping he'll be here in a day."

"Whatever for?"

"The case is staying open. I don't care what Inspector Lestrade says. Mary, the newspapers didn't get it right."

"What does it matter? It doesn't concern you anymore, surely? The verdict seemed good enough to me."

"But someone hurt… oh never mind." He hadn't realized he had begun to get angry. It was only a slight, steady temper, but it was enough to give him a headache. He had been getting moderate headaches ever since the lack of sleep started. And the tense worry.

"I feel terrible for coming down here now, John. I had no idea. You're obviously still very troubled." She pulled her sympathetic face. "I hear some people died in that house it happened in. They say it's the worst spate of murders since the Dan twins. Aren't people just wicked?"

"Yes. Yes they are indeed." He replied without thinking. He had been on autopilot since waking up. Waking next to a dying partner. Through the night Holmes had been burning up. Fevers tended to raise the body temperature beyond the norm as the body's own defensives fought the infection. But either because his immune system was failing or the fever dropped too quickly for some reason, the shrunken detective had become hypothermic. Watson had woken to find his hands cold as ice. Face not much better. Even his chest and stomach was cool and barely warm. So the late hours of the night had both him and Mrs. Hudson running around grabbing extra blankets, a bowl of hot, steamy water and a hot water bottle to count. With Sherlock's condition this bad, Watson thought about letting the case of the house of horrors drop in favor of staying with his best friend and brother. It was going to be rough ahead, he was sure.

_Let Mycroft handle the house._ He thought._ I'll handle Holmes. I'll make sure that stubborn bastard doesn't die on me._

"Is Mr. Holmes all right?" She asked at length. Her suspicion rising.

"No, Mary. He's very sick."

"I'm terribly sorry to hear that. How bad is it?"

He didn't want to share details with her. It just didn't seem right. And if he started to explain it to her, he was worried he might just clog up with tears, or succumb to frustration all over again. His eyes strayed helplessly to the bottle of scotch he kept in one of the glazed cupboard windows above Mrs. Hudson's shelf of cooking recipe books. "Well, he's weak from being assaulted."

"Assaulted? But I thought you told me he could…" She paused, unsure if she was trespassing on dangerous ground, but being so strong willed as she was and confident, she continued anyway; "defend himself extraordinary well?"

"Yes, he can. And I was proud of that fact." He rubbed his hands against his forehead. "Anyway, enough about him. What have you been up to lately?"

"Oh, the usual. My job doesn't get any easier. At least I had time to water the plants last night though. Your aloe vera was wilting!"

"Yes, I haven't been home for quite a bit, have I?"

"I understand." She said gently. "I just miss you." Her words stirred up old memories barely a week old. Holmes had been the exact same way. Lonely and depressed but in an altogether different way, and he never admitted that he 'missed' Watson. Not in those lines anyway, or lines even closely resembling the need for company on even a basic scale. No. He acted differently. He had stalked Watson on occasion, whether when the doctor was out gambling, spending time with Mary or even spending time with old hospital clients. It wasn't predatory stalking or even anything at all menacing. It was more a symptom from depression and boredom. Yes, Watson had been spending less and less time away from 221Baker Street. Yes he sometimes was away weeks at a time, even a month before he saw Holmes again. And this was perfectly normal. Because Watson had a new family now. But Holmes could never move on. So the detective's self-destructive habits had taken effect. First he started forgetting to eat, then refusing to eat at all. Lengths of the day were made softer and less painful under the high dosage of liquid drugs that he injected straight into his system. Then he'd doze hours at a time until his next cocaine dosage. Watson knew this behavior Holmes had exhibited for quite a while. And sadly Watson had let it run its course, sure that another case would come along, bringing Holmes back to life. Ironically a case did come along. The _house of horrors_ case. Weakened from drug addiction and anorexia, the detective had gone in there, only to come out again days later in a stretcher.

Maybe things would have gone differently if John had paid him more attention. Maybe. But now, it was all just a little too late.

Mary clenched his hand tighter. "It's all right." She said as if she had been reading his thoughts. "You'll both get through this. You've been through some bad patches before. This one will be no different. I believe in you, John, as I believe in Mr. Holmes."

He looked at her blankly as he had been doing to all things and persons as of late and struggled to believe her.

XXX

"How are you doing, old boy?" Watson lifted him up and padded the pillows behind him so that he could sit up without exerting effort. Holmes allowed him to do so, having spoken little except for the pained whimpers escaping his tight throat. Moving him still hurt his damaged ribcage. "Bad dreams?"

"What gives the inclination that I've been having them?" His voice, though clear and purposeful, was nothing more than a croaky, hoarse whisper.

Watson did not pause an inch in his duty. He was careful with him, like one might handle a very fragile and expensive porcelain doll. The detective's haggard breathing was as weak as ever, his heart not doing much better. His lips were thin and grey. Even his hair seemed a little greyer too, as if everything that had happened as of late had aged him by five years. "You…" He gave it a thought. Then changed his mind about it in the same instant. "Never mind. Anyway, it's time for food."

"I told you before, I am not hungry."

"Too bad, because I am getting this soup down you, whether you want to co-operate with me or not." He smiled crookedly at him and got out a napkin already on stand-by on his desk, along with the tray holding the steamy bowl of soup. He layered the white napkin across Holmes' lower chest and stomach. The sharp-eyed detective narrowed his eyes at it at once.

Watson followed his gaze and only smiled. "Come off it, you old thing. It's not going to hurt you."

"Invalids and the elderly are treated like this." His gaze turned to him with a dull flicker of the eyes.

"Indeed they are. Special treatment I call it." The doctor's smile remained. Sherlock seemed to take it as something offensive.

"What are you so jovial about?"

"Oh, me?" He turned and lifted the bowl of soup into his hands along with a spoon. With a hearty sigh he sat down on the creaky old chair as close to Holmes' side as he could. "You, in fact. You're talking a lot more than before, and you don't start up like a jack rabbit every time I touch you. This is progress. You are also not yammering on about dying like you were yesterday."

There seemed to be a mix of things Holmes wanted to say. His dull eyes looked conflicted. And he said nothing. Watson took the silence as an opportunity to feed him.

"Now open your mouth like a good boy or this is going to take all week." Holmes' suspicious eyes strayed to the soup with a tinge of fear as though Watson was offering a plate of human toes. John sighed, filled the spoon up and drew it close to thin, trembling lips. "Open." He repeated more obstinately. "Or I'll kiss you on the cheek." That seemed to do it. Some barrier that had shut down hard in the detective's mind had lifted up and he sipped on the spoon. Yet even this was slow. "Come on, Holmes. It's not hard. You sip and swallow. Two simple steps."

"I can do it myself. Pass me the soup and spoon."

"No you can't. Your hands are shaking too badly. You'll burn yourself with it."

He took a few more ginger sips; the speed at which he was doing it was getting better. After the fourth spoonful, Holmes added suddenly, "you've been drinking."

John sat back, a little deflated. "How can you tell?"

"I can smell it on your breath. You haven't been brushing your teeth either."

"I can't help it." He defended quickly. "It passes the time. What else am I to do but pace this room until you are better?"

"Dear Watson…" He spoke tiredly, "what makes you think I will get better? You are too ambitious, but that's what I've always liked about you."

"Don't say such things." He replied bitterly. His smile had gone altogether, replacing his once light mood with a sour depression. However, despite how black he was inside. Black and angry, hurt and lost, he continued to feed his poorly comrade with delicate care and patience in companionable silence. He just didn't like Holmes speaking so close to the truth. If this soup did not help him, things were going to get bad. The bony detective's respiration was a slow, torpid reflex. Nothing more. Sometimes Watson casually placed his hand on his sternum to feel the strength of his heart when they were talking. Distracted with the conversation, Holmes barely noticed. But Watson found that his heartbeats were getting too faint to be felt. And this made the doctor scared all over again.

"I sent for Mycroft." He kept feeding him the soup, hoping to God that Holmes wasn't going to reject anymore at any moment.

"Why have you sent for him? So that he can gloat at my prostrated floundering?"

"No. To help me with the… the case."

"Ah, I see." Bright, injured fear blossomed in his eyes and his skin seemed to pale even whiter. John tenderly set the soup down behind him to give the detective's small stomach a brief rest, and closed his warm fingers around Holmes's deathly cold ones. They were like ice sticks, like his had been earlier when he was sipping tasteless tea with Mary. "Watson? Why are you t-touching me?"

The doctor continued to watch him carefully. His small partner was like a wounded fawn under the great, powerful gaze of a starving tiger. "Because I want to. You're safe. I've got you, and nothing is going to change that." He still wasn't quite sure why his dear friend was so very much afraid. It wasn't very good for his heart, but he didn't really want to confront him with any personal questions just yet. Sherlock's progress was thin at best, and his obvious fragility told Watson that he wasn't ready for anything like that.

Without being aware of it, he had started to rub Holmes' cold hand against his. He felt the warmth slowly begin to seep in.

"Have you stayed? All n-night?"

"Yes, I have. All night and all day as a matter of fact."

"Very noble of you. And Mary?"

"Oh, she popped over for a visit. I explained the situation and she was quite all right with it."

"I see."

Watson continued to hold his hand for a moment longer, mainly to keep Holmes used to contact. His efforts were always paying off. Holmes just needed security even if he did not know it himself.

He gave him a little more of the soup, then passed him a drink of ginger ale. Fruit drinks or even tea would be much too strong for him and upset his stomach. Holmes winced at the bitter taste, but managed what he could.

Before the detective got too tired, Watson passed him a clean, fresh sketch book of A4 size. While his friend looked at it gloomily, John slid a pencil into his hand. "Now, I need you to help me here. You can take as much time as you need. But I want you to either write what happened in that house, or draw something. Anything. A person's face. A list of names. It'll be easy. I'm here."

Holmes looked up at him in consternation. His thin lips parted as if to speak, but no wispy voice came. Finally, he turned back to the sketchbook and began to draw on a new, crisp page. The pencil shook in symphony with his hand.

To keep him going, Watson remained sitting quietly by his side and massaged his tense, skinny shoulder. While his eyes remained on the pencil as it shakily drew black, dusty lines, his mind was elsewhere. _If Holmes can't handle the soup, and he chucks it up later in the night, he's going to go into shock from starvation and fever. I might lose him before the dawn._

Interestingly enough, Holmes was gradually drawing a common kitchen cleaver. An object John least expected.

Making sure his fingers did not stop kneading Sherlock's shoulder, he cocked his head at the picture being birthed. It was not a face he had been hoping for at all, or a simple name. But he didn't stop him from drawing it. Did the cleaver mean something, and if so, what?

Holmes' graceful drawing still looked as sophisticated and as articulate as when he was healthy, so long as you minused the scratchy, scribbled lines along the blade's curves in the worst of his underlining paroxysms. Finished, Holmes dropped the pencil. It rolled down his thick woolly blankets and scattered onto the floor. Watson clasped an arm around his terribly thin waist and pulled him into a silent embrace. Holmes did not return the gesture. Even if his arms did have the strength, his eyes were only focused on what he had drawn. He felt John's tears start to moisten the garment cloth covering his bandaged chest.

"I'm scared." John sobbed quietly at last, too ashamed to show his reddened eyes for Holmes to see. So he continued pressing his face against his chest. The tears had been imprisoned inside of him for too long. Much too long.

"Scared of what?" He croaked back. It was a lifeless echo.

"Scared. Scared of losing you."

XXX

Mrs. Hudson shook her head to herself while she knitted away. "Oh, it all seems rather queer, doctor. And no more news on what happened in the house? Earnstone, was it?"

"Earlstone." He corrected, taking another sip of tea. It was all he had been drinking lately, that and a dash of brandy in his coffee. If Sherlock got any worse tonight, he would rip down self-control and hit the bottle completely. Fuck restraint. Fuck rules.

He had stayed with his dying friend until he had fallen asleep. Making sure Holmes was still breathing; Watson put the sketch book away for Mycroft to later look at. Then he went down for a drink with every intention of returning to his friend's side. He always knew it was going to be a criminal or a dangerous case that would one day kill Holmes. Either that or from his drug habits. Perhaps a stroke from too much cocaine, or a heart attack from all three.

"And he can't remember?" The nanny asked from the kitchen table.

"I think he remembers all of it. Or else he has selective amnesia. He just won't tell me, is all."

"Well, it is strange." The nanny considered over her knitting. "You can't forget what you don't remember, and you can't just forget what happened. Can't you get anything more out of him?"

"I tried." He responded limply, the conversation growing as stale as his mood. "He's not ready yet."

"The murderer is dead, is he not? Does it really matter what happens now?"

"We all due respect, Mrs. Hudson. Five people are dead. Wouldn't it be a consolation to the families of the deceased to know that the people involved were properly apprehended and convicted in court?"

"Are you telling me that you suspect Mr. Holmes?" She looked dead serious, and a little afraid.

"I'm saying that nothing appears as it seems, Sherlock can't well rape himself can he?"

She looked down at her knitting, her face pale. "I am so sorry, Dr. Watson. Please forgive me. I am so, so very sorry."

"No, no. Don't apologize. I'm sorry too. The whole case just seems unusual. I thank God that he made it out alive, believe me. But the whole situation doesn't make sense. There were four victims, correct? Not including Patrick. There was a girl called Lucy, another called Mandy and a man named Tom, and well, Sherlock himself. That makes four. But when I went to look at the house it suggested another killer. After the house was allegedly visited before the horror happened by a constable, all the doors leading to the house thereafter were locked from the outside. Yet Patrick died within, unable to get out, or so I presume. Also there are signs of cigarette butts everywhere. Patrick was no smoker. Smokers have telltale signs, like yellowed fingers and lips and the graying of skin. Again the supposed murderer showed none of these signs, and Sherlock dislikes using cigarettes. Either Tom or one of the girls liked a quick fix while they were getting murdered, or there was another killer on the scene."

"Enough, doctor. I want to hear no more of this." The house maid got up at once, leaving her knitting on the table. "I'll be in the lounge if you need me. Good day."

Watson scratched his head, thinking only of his lethargic partner. "Sherlock, give me something… please. What am I to do?" He pinched his eyes shut with one hand, trying to think and coming up with blanks. There was only one thing he could do, and that was to wait for Mycroft to get on the case; Sherlock's loyal brother. Not only could he shed some light on this whole dilemma, but maybe he could shift Sherlock into a motivated recovery? He had already wired a telegram, but it would still take some time for Mycroft to leave the country and come down to London.

And John was fed up of waiting.

Later, he returned upstairs with a flagon of sherry in one hand. Sherlock was sleeping soundly. But his breathing was barely felt. Chest no longer rising.

He thought of the cleaver drawn carefully in the sketchbook. He thought of drinking a whole bottle of wine with no one to share it with. He thought of Mary, sitting alone at home and thinking of them both.

John knelt down by the detective's bedside. He skimmed his fingers over his partner's throat and collarbone. "I love you, Holmes. Please fight this and get better. Don't you dare give up on me! Don't you bloody dare!" For a long, long time he stayed kneeling by his bed. Hoping and praying.

And mostly hoping.

* * *

**Dib07: Hope you liked! Please tell me what ya think! More soon!**


	7. Chapter 7 Reaching Out

**Dib07:** Hiya all, and yes, I know I am agonizingly late again! My original plan was to upload a new chapter every month, starting from March. But I didn't submit one in March or April! Dear me! Anyway, I hope this next chapter makes up for the lack of! BTW the reader feedback is STAGGERING! I have replied to you each individually to let you know how much I appreciate the time you take when you write a review! Your support has kept this story going and it's all for you!

**Erica:** Thanks! Yes I am a lover of detail! It really builds up the story, the characters and their emotions! Like Sherlock said himself, it's the little things that count! :)

**Mulder:** Hahaha! I am such a slow poke! Sorry for the delay and I hope you haven't thought I have given up on this story. If it wasn't for work, I would have wrapped this story up by now! XD

**SherlockForever:** I'm addicted to this story too, and as I see the end coming, I am tempted to start a whole new one based on the end of Game of Shadows with my same style of writing I have found writing this one. It's all exciting for me, and I love giving the readers something good to read out there! I am the sort of person that prints pages and pages off FFN from other people's stories so I can read them at work, giggling or crying!

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

**Chapter 7: **Reaching out

It was best to check on Holmes after Watson had given himself a bath and had had breakfast while expecting Mycroft to drop in at any time. Mrs. Hudson did a fine job of course, there was to be no slating her. She checked on him at least three times in the hour, a few times more when he was awake (even though she beguiled that it wore her legs out because of the amount of times she had to trundle up and down the stairs), but Watson always loved to see him. Make sure he was doing all right. The morning had been a stroke of luck and shining fortune, though it was slim; because his small partner still breathed. As the golden light of the sun poked through the curtains, Watson had awoken with a stiff neck from sleeping on the chair all night. He hadn't realized he had nodded off to sleep quite so tolerantly and he had reposed with his chin resting heavily against his collarbone through the dark hours. Holmes had been sitting up in bed also, and perhaps had less sleep himself despite being the one in the bed. He had propped his own self up with the laced, feather pillows and had half lain, half sat reminiscing in the near dark and listening to the wind chatter outside and the late police officers trundle softly down the streets in their polished ankle boots. How long he had stayed awake for remained a mystery, but a crumpled up sheet of paper had been wedged in the claw of his hand as it lay across the blankets covering his bony knees. Watson had pried the sheet of paper off him with gregarious care but Sherlock continued to sleep, head listlessly snuggled in his upright pillow, his chin in the crook of his shoulder. A crook that looked more like a cave. He was thinning impossibly by the day, the muscles practically wasting off his body in layers and making the bones beneath more and more visible.

Watson had gently started to smooth out the sheet whilst trying to remember whether he had taken the sketchbook from Holmes or not. The actual book was on the floor by the chair, the page with the cleaver drawn on it feasibly tucked away in its countless sheets. This drawing was different, and didn't display a butcher's hand-tool. It was quite altogether something different. And insurmountably worse somehow than even the grinning, sketchy flash of a cleaver.

Watson seldom got really horrified or scared. Children got scared. Puppies and women knew more than he ever would about fear and its melancholy reaches. Death brought out that paralyzing terror of course; it was the sole divider. The shapeless horror of the unknown and of pain that split life and death in two.

A cold, chilling ache of fear had sloped its way down Watson's back, and made him shiver even though the temperature in the room had not dropped. Sherlock had drawn a dog. A short-haired, tall breed with a broad head and shoulders with a lean, high back. Its head was cocked forwards, the whites of its eyes infinitely staring into its audience like a motionless ghoul. Sherlock had shaded it in until the lead on the pencil had tried to mimic the shade of dark grayish black.

XXX

Mycroft Holmes had entered the house with not a trace of fear. He didn't seem governed by the supernatural like everyone else. He just saw it as an ordinary house not worth more than any other.

Since they had alerted Scotland Yard beforehand of their visit, there were more police officers posted outside like idle sentries. Even so, none entered. Superstitious maybe. But stupid they were not. They nodded at Mycroft, but only three officers had come. Watson expected more. The protection made him feel safer. Lestrade saw the case as solved and closed and did not see any need to post more needlessly. Watson in a way saw that Lestrade was probably right in acting as such. Perhaps the case was solved. Patrick had probably done it all. The killings. The rape. And then killed himself. He did respect Lestrade to some degree. In a way he had to. Lestrade was the Inspector and took almost every case under his wing so it was hard not to bump into him on occasion. They passed the main officers, while the one closest to the door unlocked for them. "We're putting the house on sale again come the spring." He said as though he were indifferent to the house's personal history. "This is the last time it can be reviewed, Dr. Watson."

"I understand."

They went in, the officer closing the door behind them.

"Can we have some light in here, John?" Mycroft was often sometimes direct and at other times not. "It's as dark as my toilet bowel in here."

"Delightful." Watson proceeded to light an oil lamp as he had done before. That same startling smell of repulsive stink wafted into his sensitive nostrils. "This is the last time I am coming here anyway, Mycroft. I don't care if you give me a hundred pounds. I've had it up to here."

Mycroft smiled as if he found it all amusing. Until he saw the bloodstains. Watson stayed close to the bigger man at all times. He did not consider himself as a weakling following a shepherd, but he hated this place beyond normal reasoning. He allowed himself the comfort of shadowing another. Besides, without Holmes he felt rather lonely and very responsible and was more than happy to tag along so long as Mycroft came out with some useful information or this trip was a total waste.

Mycroft saw everything John had seen the night before. The bloodied bathtub he viewed in greater detail, though he still had to produce his flowery hanky from his shirt pocket and drown his nose in its folds. "Dear God!" He didn't stagger out of the small bathroom though until his eyes had scrutinized everything there was to see. "Your constables did a spiffing job of cleaning up." His sarcasm was bright and clear.

"Evidence, you see." John returned tiredly, holding the lantern up to his face to help keep the imaginary boogey men at bay. "Anything?"

"Patience, my love. Me and my brother work at different speeds. I could really do with some tea though."

"Well, you won't get it here."

They worked their way through the house in deliberate caution. Finally they came to the landing outside the master bedroom. "Did anyone think to check the attic?" Mycroft asked, pointing his leather gloved finger up at the hatch on the ceiling.

"I should think they have. Lestrade and his team are usually rather thorough. Not as thorough as Holmes would have liked, including that other…detective that checked the place out."

"I see. Stool?"

John grumbled and went to get one. The lack of sleep had been really catching up with him. It didn't bode well to be impatient and snarky to Holmes' brother, but lately he had been snappy, upset and not his usual self. Mycroft didn't blame him for it. He was remarkably patient and seemed to take it all in his stride. Besides, he more than knew Watson's reasons for being so distraught.

He came back with a little antique stool made from rich oak wood. From sinking paranoia, John had checked it twice for bloodstains. There was none but his eyes kept falling to it in the lamp light in avid suspicion, sure that he would see something bad and terrible even on simple furniture.

Mycroft stood on it and unhooked the latch, pulling the little door swinging outward as it opened. A little step ladder unfolded out and descended down onto the worn carpet.

It was cold up there. With no lights to precede them, Mycroft used John's lamp and went upwards first. It was a simple, typical Victorian attic. Gnarled wooden beams accosted the arched roof. Mice scattered from the light. Some bird droppings, dry and white marked the wooden floorboards that creaked terribly as they paced their weight upon it. John came up, eyes trying to scan every dark corner at once. He thanked the stars that he had Mycroft here, now. The broad man made him feel surely safe, safer than a witch in a coven's den.

"From what I've gathered…" Mycroft used Watson's cane to shift objects aside as he peered around. Old vases wobbled on their cardboard boxes. More mice dived out of the way in terrific panic. There was a box filled with old lanterns, another containing soaps. A couple of broken candleholders gleamed in the light. There was a stacked pile of paintings, all of them done by unknown, unaffiliated artists who were probably nothing more than street workers. "There were two killers. Possibly a third, though of this I am unsure."

"Two killers?"

"Yes. At the very least." He tore apart a great big cobweb with the butt of John's cane that was hanging between the lower beams that guarded off another section of roof. The closed section was the unsafe part where the floorboards were slowly disintegrating from rot and damp. "One of them came here to escape."

"How can you be so sure? And why escape?" John stayed near the ladder hatch. The frigid cold up here was almost as unbearable as the bloody stench below. "There were handprints on the glass window." He pointed with the cane at the only window in the attic.

"Yes." Jon concluded, folding his hands over his elbows as he hugged his arms to his chest. "The police couldn't get it open. It was wielded shut."

"Well that explains it."

"Explains what?"

"The window was sealed shut. The seal along the bottom of the window had been taken out. The suspect used glue, and once he was outside and on the roof, he shut the window behind him. With the current weather being as cold as it was, it solidified the glue quickly making it hard to open, though not impossible. I say, John, is everyone this incompetent in London?"

John decided to humor him. "Yes." He paused while Mycroft continued giving the attic space a good poke-around with his cane. "So there's two killers? And Patrick?"

"Patrick was in on it. He had to be. Or it started off as such. There may have been a quarrel and he was dropped as the side kick. He was nothing but a face for the door. That clump of stuff you found under the bed you showed me was his disguise. However this other killer wanted his identity completely untarnished and hidden. He made good his escape through the attic."

"What makes you think there is a third suspect then?"

"Patrick was dead. Stone cold dead close to Holmes as you said, and so the criminal report also states clearly. Who then closed the attic hatch? It cannot be done from above. Someone else folded the stepladder back again after the killer left while this other gentleman stayed behind. Patrick may have also been stabbed by him. These are my assumptions, however."

"Can you work out any gain as to why these…killers…" John thought on his reply and could think of nothing other than something put into simple context. "Did this? All of this? The butchery? The… sexual orientation?"

"Probably voodoo or witchcraft. Either that or these profound killers could only achieve orgasm through these heinous acts. Men can be butchers, you see. Which makes me prone to believe that these…people may have worked in an animal factory or a workhouse first to start an insatiable desire for sex. They must have been homosexuals, driven to slaying handsome men perhaps or something forthwith." He paused, as if in terrible realization of the mistake too far that he had said too much. Upsetting Watson was not what he had intended, so he quickly changed the subject. "What tea do you serve at home? I'm famished."

"Oh, Earl's Grey." He retorted limply. Mycroft always had an airy calmness about him. John found it all rather unsettling. "With crumpets if you prefer."

"Delightful."

On their way back, passing the hallway, both of them now covering their noses in their handkerchiefs, the chief officer opened the door for them when John knocked twice on the door, making sure to use the head of his cane. Touching anything was a definite no-no. Only when they were in the fresh air, away from the ripe smell of swelling offal and blood (the house, said the officer, was to be thoroughly cleaned the day after tomorrow, giving the flies even more time to lay their eggs) Watson asked, "so what do you think about your little brother drawing the picture of the cleaver that I showed you? That is the only thing he has ever shown or even come close to giving me an example of his experience. Well?"

"Sherley is in shock. Maybe his mind could only process one image at a time. You're the doctor, Doctor. What can you tell me about the cleaver?"

"Is this a game we're playing?" This time he _did_ sound angry, and he _was_ angry. "Holmes is on the edge of hysteria. In fact, I think he might just be crazy, and why not? Your brother has been raped and all you can do is expect me, _me_! To figure things out! Yes, you looked at the house and noticed something different, but time is running out! I have been looking after Holmes as he gets weaker and weaker! I need help! _He _needs help!"

"I meant no offence." This time Mycroft did look hurt and morally deflated. They had stopped walking and were now standing by Fisher's Cod shop. "Look. I want to help. Really, I do. He may be my biological brother, dear boy, but you know him better than I do. Better than I could ever have known him. and he trusts you more than he lets on. Think, John. What does the cleaver tell _you_? What did it mean when Sherley, out of everything else he could have drawn, drew _you_ that? Why?"

"I don't know why!" John shouted; reproachful, hateful. Downright bloody angry too. A few men walking past with their fancy canes gave them wide births on the street and keeping their watchful eyes on them. "I don't know why." He repeated, still angry and confused, but no longer shouting it in Mycroft's puzzled, bewildered face.

"Perhaps if you weren't drinking so much…you would have already seen the answer long ago."

"Is it really that obvious?"

"Yes. If I were you, I'd drink too. Listen… John…" He sighed and rolled his eyes down to the pavement that was cracked at their feet in two dozen places. Concrete spider webs, Holmes would call them. "Tonight, I want you to be there for him. I want you to sit quietly with him and not say anything. Hold him. Do all the brotherly-bonding you two usually do. And be patient. He needs someone to simply _be there_ for him, even if he doesn't know it himself. Men can be hard to read, as I'm sure you agree."

"I do. And what shall you do?"

"I'm renting a room the Cleveland Overlook Hotel down by the lake out of town. I might even try and find Miss. Alder..."

"You're not coming back to Baker Street with me?"

"No." Mycroft looked even more demoralized and withdrawn. "Seeing my brother this way is more than enough for me. I don't have the courage when it comes to… to family getting sick and dying. It's not in my blood to withhold pain like you can. The only reason I am staying…well…you already know. Don't you?"

John turned brusquely round, face narrowing into thin, boiling anger, eyes blazing like dark fire. He marched back towards home strong and determined, but by the time he had rounded the corner, Mycroft safely out of sight, he nearly collapsed with rage and despair. Oh, he knew why Mycroft was staying. For the damn funeral.

XXX

Watson hung his frockcoat up on the clothes rack, leaning his bowler's hat on it too. Inside the flat was warm and there came the soft, promising rattle of tea cups. Mrs. Hudson came to peer at him from her ground floor room in the open doorway. "He was awake last I checked on him." She said. "His f-fever's got stronger and he's sweating. There was blood on the sheets…"

"Blood?" Watson gasped, lurching forwards with his cane.

"Yes, where he wet the bed. I've changed them for new ones, doctor, but does he usually pee red?"

"No." He scrunched up his nose, a good tactic to ward off the first prickling onset of tears. "Make him a hot water bottle and bring it up as soon as it is ready."

"Yes, I shall."

Watson trundled up the stairs as fast as his limp would allow him, sure that the actual staircase was growing longer every time he used it. It wouldn't have surprised him if this was the truth and that common steps had indeed defied physics. But when he came up to Sherlock's room and pushed the door wider that was already open, what he saw really shocked him to the core. Ice filled his blood. Horror roiled in his gut like bad indigestion. "Holmes! What in good Lord are you _doing_?"

Holmes was in fact _out _of bed and standing fixedly at the closed window by the chair and desk. He was using one of Watson's spare canes to support himself with from the store that John always kept in the back of the wardrobe in case the one he was using happened to break, get lost or stolen. Holmes himself was as straight as a post, and equally as still. John had heard of the term, '_being as taut as wire_,' and didn't believe it until now. And when the shrunken detective didn't rouse or start at Watson's shocked rebuke, the doctor pounded across the carpet and over to him. All he wanted to do was shake Holmes out of it, but when he came to stand by his side, he couldn't help but not just notice but _see_ how terrified Holmes' eyes looked. It was as if he had spotted a lurking monster somewhere down on the street below.

Concerned, Watson looked out of the window himself, discerning nothing out of the ordinary. A paper boy was running after a customer who hadn't paid with the correct change. Hansom carriages, poor or middleclass stagecoaches trotted past through the late afternoon fog and damp. Young rain was pattering raised umbrellas as black as coal bins. It was an ordinary Tuesday afternoon. "Holmes? What are you looking at?" _And what grabbed your attention a trifle violently that it made you leave your bed?_

Again, Holmes' cryptic eyes, often closed and dark when he was in that other plane of concentration and study, was unreadable. Rarely could Watson see the true emotions hiding beyond his secretive waters. It was only until Watson touched his partner on the shoulder that Holmes jerked into animation. He seemed to remember himself and lose his balance all in the same instant, the cane dropping away from limp fingers. Legs strengthless and stupid, he began to fall. Watson slung out an arm and caught his back before he could reel away from the window. Steadily still crumpling to the floor, Watson had to catch one armpit in his hand and hoisted Holmes back up. His garments sagged around him like fluttery paper. "W-Watson?" He said, voice milky with sleep and fragility. "Where…were you?"

"Never mind that now. Let's get you back to bed, old boy. You're shaking." He half carried, half led him back to the bed. The sheets were indeed spotlessly clean and smelt of fragrant cotton and lavender. He felt a warmth of pride for Mrs. Hudson.

He gently guided Holmes onto the mattress and got one leg up for him, then the other. His limbs were hard bone beneath the soft touch of cloth and Watson got a chill of dread every time he felt his emaciation.

Just when he was about to sling the covers and all-manner of snug blankets back over the detective's form, that was when he spotted the dark ruby stain covering the garment over his crotch. It wasn't just rape. It was mutilation.

"W-Watson? May you c-c-close my c-c-curtains?" His shaking was so bad that it was a struggle for him to issue the words, despite only a minute ago being as taut as wire by the window.

"Yes, of course." He walked over to the window and saw the stagecoaches passing one more time before he shut the meddling daylight out. He lit a few candles to compensate, though the afternoon light coming through the curtains was still plenty to see by. He came and crouched low to Holmes. "May I see where you're bleeding?"

"No." The answer was a strict negative without the stutter.

"And why not? I'm a doctor too as well as a friend, in case it's slipped your mind."

"It h-hasn't slipped my m-m-mind."

Mrs. Hudson came in with the hot water bottle as promised and a mug of warm chamomile. Watson thanked her immensely before she left again.

Easing the hot water bottle over Holmes' shaking stomach, Watson got the covers back over him again, not done yet with the argument of seeing where he was bleeding. "Relax into the heat. That's it."

"You s-sound like a h-h-housemaid."

"Do I?" He joked softly, smiling just a little. He rose the mug and got Holmes to drink a few weedy mouthfuls.

"Watson…there's a b-box over by my l-left chair under the floorboards. The box contains all my life s-savings…please…please…t-t-t-t-take…"

"Shhh." Mycroft's wise words floated into his head like truthful grains of sand; '_Tonight, I want you to be there for him. Hold him. And be patient. He needs someone to simply be there for him, even if he doesn't know it himself.' _"Don't you ever concern yourself with things like that again, you hear me? You're not going anywhere, so why would I need to burrow your life savings, hmm?" He whispered into his ear. Holmes' breathing was heavy, quick and oxygen-desperate. Sweat was sliding thickly down his temples and chin. He was so white he was going blue in the face now. Eyes more sunken than yesterday and with breathing that rattled as though he had something loose in his chest. He was dying. That fact was undeniable as well as it was unmistakable but despite all the odds against Watson, he was going to do everything to keep his beloved friend alive.

"W-Watson…don't play g-games with me… You know as well as I know that t-t-things are less than desirable right n-n-now."

"You're doing fine, old boy. You're holding down your food and…and you like daydreaming out of bed!" The smile felt so false on his lips that he wanted it to be slapped off him. He let Holmes drink more chamomile and then pulled off his boots and slid in beside his friend under the dry covers. Without speaking, he pressed the hot water bottle gently against Holmes' left side, warming the bruises there. He thought about the cleaver and what Mycroft meant. Holmes, tired and wheezy, naturally and without distrust leaned into Watson's chest like a child wanting the comfort of a parent. His body shape was a perfect fit in Watson's arms.

Holmes had drawn a single object. It wasn't just an image. It was a message. _I used that cleaver._ The message said. _I used it to save my life. But not in the way you think. It's also what haunts me the most. Isn't it amazing Watson, what tools are capable of when they are wielded by hands of a man? And the dog I drew? Ah yes, that dog was in the house with me the entire time. Never taking its white eyes off me._

"W-W-Wat…"

"Shhh, try not to speak. You really don't have the luxury of energy right now to do so." He ran fingers through his hair. Holmes was in pain. Pain that drugs couldn't touch. Not this pain. This pain that ran deeper than roots from a tree. "You must sleep, dear Holmes. Your body needs to heal." And for a time Holmes did close his eyes, his rough, struggling breaths easing a degree as he dozed in his friend's embrace, the hot water bottle spreading its soothing warmth.

Then…

"W-Watson…?"

"What did I tell you? Hush."

Holmes opened his eyes but didn't move from his friend's hold. "If you check me down t-t-there…you won't think any less of m-m-me will y-you?"

"Why would you even think that? You know I wouldn't you silly man."

Tears began to well in the detective's eyes. "I'm ready."

"Ready? For me to…?"

"Yes, and y-yes to your earlier request as well. I'm going to tell you e-everything. I d-don't think I h-have much time l-left…but you need to k-know."

Watson was taken aback. Now, in Holmes' unraveling condition, more poorly by the hour, he didn't want Holmes to spend the last energy he had left to recount the horror. But this was what he had wanted to hear, all along. This was what had driven him to sleepless nights and hangovers. This was it. And he didn't want it anymore.

"No, dear Holmes. Rest. Please."

"I cannot rest until I t-tell y-y-yo-you. Please, Watson. Let me speak."

Watson closed his eyes, stung with regret and a seasoning of anger and impotency too. Gods, why did it have to be like this?

He could hear the ticking of his pocket watch as it lay discarded with its chain on the lamp stand. He could hear horse hooves leaving their mark on the cobbled stones outside and the ring of market bells. He could hear Holmes' strained chest somehow finding the will to keep inhaling.

"Don't keep an old man wa-waiting, Watson."

"All right." The agreement felt too final. Too fatal. Too much. "Tell me everything if you can find the courage inside yourself. But please, do not force it out and please don't exhaust yourself." Funny really, to say these things to Holmes; the clever, integral character that was always up for a challenge. That never turned away, lost resolve or got distracted. He was always a dynamite of loose energy, yet was directed when needed to be. Now he was a shadow of the mess left behind. A mess that held no structure or self-reliance any longer. And he was about to tell him his final anecdote.

"It all began when I left for Street Five Avenue at Barley Taverns." Sherlock Holmes began. "And it w-w-was raining. I was just about to…"

* * *

**Dib07:** Sorry if there are any spelling or grammer mistakes. Sorry again for those of you who are 15 and under too, because the next chapter, chapter 8 to be exact is going up to an **M rating,** so those of you who are 16 and older can read it if they wish, but Sherlock's POV upcoming is not for the terribly young. See this as an early warning just to be safe, and I'll warn you all again when the new chapter arrives, because it won't be pretty, as many of you are already suspecting. So yeah! LOL! Think about poor me, I gotta write it! XD Anyways, I'm signing off now, and please review if you liked this chapter! The support is wonderful! Pure drugs for me, I kid you not! Anyway, have a good day/night!


	8. Chapter 8 Fall Down

**Dib07:** Okay. It's here. (I be sweating, no joke!) But since Holmes's experience is so, urm, long, I have to do it in parts, here being the first part out of two or three, depending. I thought it wouldn't be that long (silly me) but a lot does happen here, and I am not going to do any cutting or slopping together of bits to make it shorter. You readers deserve the full experience. Whether you can take it or not, well that's up to you, lol. Anyway, please, please be kind if you want to review or flame me. I have tried to keep Holmes in character, and what happens in this chapter is not pleasant therefore I have rated it **M**. So yeah, I am nervous. I have done character torture on FFN before but not to this grade.

**AgentHumen:** Hi! Sorry but I couldn't PM you because you had PM messages blocked, so I couldn't thank you personally for your review! So thanks! You are too kind! :) I am happy you are having a good read, though what you think of this chapter may give you a different idea! XD

XXxxxXX

**Chapter 8: Fall Down**

…"…buy the daily newspaper." He said to the shopkeeper standing behind the fluttering mess of the newspaper stand. It was a most profound dreary start to the day, and he thought it most refreshing to take a stroll in the morning, mostly to ease himself out of Watson's company, a company he always cherished, but now things had turned poor and wasted. Emotion with the doctor seemed remote. Impossible. There was no sense staying in 221 B any longer, at least for a little while. He had made one singular mistake while pursuing Mary and Watson. He had failed to stray behind them at a leisurely rate of twenty to twenty seven feet and his disguise hadn't been a disguise at all. He had gone out as himself, merely with his faux hat on and cord jacket, hanging at the back as people wound this way and that in the loud, flustered market of Wednesday afternoon. Watson, being initiative as he was, took a vigil glance over his shoulder to perhaps check the time on the church steeple in the far background. In his haste to join Mary he had forgotten to bring his pocket watch. There was a clock face on each side of the steeple, and it was this that he most likely wanted to observe when he caught eyes with Holmes in the market. The smaller detective could only but nod using the brisk of his hat in an abashed manner before departing via another route. It was painfully obvious that he was stalking him. There was no use lying to Watson, because he had already mentioned that he would be spending nearly all day in Hatter's Library which happened to be on the other side of London or hereabouts and that was where he clearly wasn't. So Holmes idled back home, not put out but still unable to let Watson '_go_' if go was even the right word. Emotion was not one of Holmes's strong points, and Watson had directed this out to him a fair number of occasions. Holmes was also used to getting his own way, this was true. And so the reprimand came not four hours later. The rain had stopped and the sunlight came slanting in through the muggy window as thick as cream. Watson knocked on the door once using his knuckle before letting himself in. At first Holmes observed that the doctor said nothing. Nothing at all. But his eyes flashed with bottled umbrage. As deduced, Watson's pocket watch had been indeed left behind. It lay on the mantle and Holmes busily began to wind it up for him while he sat cross-legged on his plush armchair that reeked of tobacco and cologne. The newspaper he had brought now lay spread out across the table with the article that had so grabbed his interests circled in ink. Since Watson wasn't going to speak, Holmes began to conversation for him, as often he did.

"What are your adventures today, Watson?"

"Why? So you can follow us?" John's response was a tired, fed up sigh. "You were stalking us. For the life of me I can't think why. You're jealous, I know. But now you're scaring Mary. And honestly, I think you're more bonkers than I've ever realized."

"I'm not jealous of her." He said, though the tone belied his true feelings.

"Don't fool with me. I only came to warn you, Holmes. Leave us alone. Please." His eyes said; _'I don't have time for the both of you.'_

Holmes nodded, lifting the small metallic and glass syringe off the table. The syringe was a routine instrument which held no more wrong that his common pipe. To him it was as harmless as a cup of porcelain. A remedy for his troubles. Usually he only lavished in the solutions when his mind stagnated. When things needed to be clear again once the cases dried up and were done with and life had begun to grow fuzzy and fermented. Cocaine took him on rides of mental elation – for a time. Now he was using it more and more often. It replaced the need and want for food and rest quite sufficiently. "I just thought I'd tell you that I'm close to picking up the lead of this killer," Holmes said at last when the silence became a thick sticky paste between them, "Earlstone Cross. Heard of it? People have reported a neighbor going out in the middle of the day and only returning late at night. He once invited a woman over to stay apparently. She was never seen coming out again."

"I'm sure that house has more than one door. She's probably still there knitting or something."

"Or dead." There was only one way of course to know and that was to go up and visit the house where she was last seen. The police hadn't found out all the missing persons seemed to originate at 29 Earlstone Cross yet. Holmes had got a report from the neighbour next door to 29 who had watched the lady go in and never come out again. This neighbour was a bored old woman who liked to spy on neighbours, and finally this rancid habit of hers had come in handy. Holmes being Holmes, he was known as the local detective and the old woman had approached him with this tip, and hadn't reported it as yet to the police.

He pulled his white, loose sleeve up, ready to inject himself and not bothering with a tourniquet fixed to his bicep which was usually a belt. "I'm going over there tonight. All clues and my observations have led me to this point. There are no other leads."

Watson turned towards the door, the look on his face one of crystal disgust."Fine. Then go. But after you solve this case, stay away from me and Mary. If we bring up a family, I don't want you and your weird ideas in the picture. I've had it, Holmes. You are a dear friend to me, but please give me space to find my own freedom!"

Holmes looked up; hurt was wedged deep and dark in his eyes. But Watson had already gone out through the doorway like a turbulent rainstorm. "So I am to see to this case alone." He spoke to the soulless door as it swung to a gentle close of its own doing. Perhaps this was the way things were meant to be after all.

He dosed himself up on the drug before taking his cord jacket and slipping into it. The close, snug fit it once endorsed on his frame had now become a large cumbersome curtain of weight. He was getting thinner, he knew. Weight had dropped off him this past week. He had not properly eaten in a month. At first his body coped and no outward signs betrayed him. Then he began to grow weaker, more restless at night than normal and his skin started to develop jaundice; a yellowing of the skin's pigmentation. Holmes did not know formally what depression was or the fact that he was suffering from it. To him, he had simply lost interest in food among other things and had grown quiet and distant. Drugs sustained him, made that weakness shift away like old cobwebs and he felt fresh and new in no time after each injection.

Before leaving for the front door, he noticed his heavy J.19 revolver resting on the coffee table among his magnifying glass and his empty whiskey tumbler. He gave it a passing glance and opted to take his horse crop instead that rested like a sleeping snake beside his ankle boots.

He strode outside, stopping briefly on the steps when he felt faint. His vision had turned into a misted haze and his lungs seemed to grow heavy in his chest as though he had been socked in the stomach. His left hand gripped the iron black railings and there he stayed for a moment, looking like an old man in need of dire rest. The open warmth of the weather, once so welcoming and embracing, had turned suddenly chilly, either that or his body was but a thin receiver of what warmth there was.

He started down the steps, each leg jerking downwards than was their usual, smooth transition from foot to foot. Steady now, the faintness receding, he walked down the street hearing church bells and women gossip. He hugged the crop to his chest and signaled for a cab. He would solve this case alone and put his mind at ease once his suspicions had been confirmed. This would feed his mind for perhaps another day while he mused and chewed over Watson's absence.

The cab took him down Bridal Avenue, Horn Bridge and finally to Earlstone Cross. Paying the cab driver a pound (the man saluted him for the hearty tip) Holmes hopped off and sauntered towards the house numbered 29. The very same house the girl never came out of again.

All the houses here looked like they had been rustled together in a hurry. The roof shingles were mossy and slimy despite the afternoon sunshine. 29 in particular had a garden infested with thorns and wild, rough shrubs that were hard to kill once their roots had taken hold in the earth. Even poisonous ragwort, a notoriously dangerous weed, sprouted with ample fury in the grass. Ivy hugged the building all over, like a noose of many strands slowly and surely strangling the house as a snake squeezes a mouse. The house had two floors, with black windows. You couldn't see into it, and the door was loathed with peeling red paint.

He stood for a time, looking intently at the house that wrought him no clues. Many buildings all around him looked equally neglected and unloved. This was the eastern parts of London for you.

At last, dragging his tired feet into motion, he lumbered through the little wooden gate and on through the pathway just visible through the wall of nettles growing on each side. Standing at the door, he whacked the wood with his crop but once but twice. There was no glass spy hole in the door, and no knocker either. He didn't have to wait long.

The door opened.

A man with a low-cut moustache, a chewed red cardigan and baggy trousers opened the door. His eyes were like the silver smile of the moon on a cold, cloudless evening beyond the veil of fog. Sherlock too noted that the man had run a bolt back in order to open his own home to the outside world.

Holmes tried to lift a smile to the man, but this hurt him, so he dropped the attempt quickly. "Is this the Earlstone residence of number 29?" He asked, resting his hands on his hips. It was then that he realized through his fuzzy drugged state of mind that he had brought no gun with him. It lay at home, cozy and warm on the coffee table.

"It is, sir." Replied the man. He studied Sherlock still further with his eyes. "You're not another investigator, are ya?"

"I'm just a humble man deducing the whereabouts of a Miss. Lucy April. Apparently a woman fitting her description came to this very place and hasn't been seen again since."

"I already told the police my answer. Stupid blue bottles can't leave us alone!"

Holmes got the whiff of pungent bourbon on the man's breath. His cardigan also reeked of cigar smoke. "And what was that, may I ask?"

"That she left for Milton Market to see her boyfriend. She's come back now. She's upstairs, asleep in the bedroom." The man glanced over Sherlock's shoulder for a moment. His face was hard with mistrust. "You can check her, if you want. Then ya can send that bit o' information back to the pigs!"

"Right you are." He stepped towards the door. The man held him back for a moment, looking at him closer than ever. "Your name?"

"Patrick Omen. Hang on a minute there, sonny. Are you Sherlock Holmes, by chance?"

"Why, yes I am."

"My, my. The great detective. At my house, I'll be damned!"

"Indeed." Holmes said in dull regard. He stepped forward, almost having to push past the man to get into the tight hallway. The hallway led out into an even tinier kitchen and a living room was on his left side. On his right was the banister and the wooden staircase undressed without much carpet or paint. "Upstairs, you say?"

"Yes sir."

The house was too quiet. It lingered and yet seemed to swell as if Holmes had just stepped into a muted hot jungle. There was a smell too that crawled inside his nostrils – a putrid reek of offal and faeces. It even had a stale, revolting taste. He went to turn and question the house owner but by then it was already too late. He had inevitably lost his own advantage.

There had been another man all along, hiding behind the door when the owner opened it to speak to Holmes. Always unseen until the door was closed again, but by then Holmes had already plodded ahead to regard the forthcoming interior of the house with sleepy eyes when the door was closed and this second man was revealed standing in the corner by a dead potted plant. He came up behind the detective welding a policeman's baton. Just as Sherlock turned, the man went to strike the baton down across his lower back, aiming to shatter or at least fracture his spinal column. Luckily Holmes had turned at that instant before the man had snapped it down, but it still smashed into the detective's thin arm as he reached out to try and stop the attacker. It had foreshortened the blow enough for Holmes to steal their advantage. Arm lacing with burning hurt, Sherlock drove his crop at the attacker, but Patrick Omen charged into him, sending Holmes backwards into a bookless allotment of dirty shelves that snapped and broke down into a dusty mist when the pair torpedoed into them. Holmes's spine and lower ribs braced hard against unyielding wood and he couldn't help but cry out, kneeing Patrick's collarbone with a good jab while he did so. Patrick yelled like a young lady when an evident sound of cracking whistled in the air. He leapt upright holding his lower throat and let the other man pounce forward with the baton. This man was of older breed, with unkempt hair and stupid little eyes that belied equal intelligence. He rammed towards Holmes like an axe murderer straight out of a theater set. Holmes bent forwards and slammed the heel of his hand hard into the other man's diaphragm – the only body part he could reach in his compromised position aside from the groin region. The single, calculated hit did the job. All that power behind the carefully placed jab sent the man staggering back a step, utterly winded and gasping in agony. Though he did not surrender his baton, one hand cupped his lower chest and he vomited on the broken bits of shelving.

"Lowly thugs, the both of you." Holmes decreed, rising and kicking bits of debris from his boots and shunning dust from his corded sleeves. "Your coordinated attack shames you. As soon as I rescue the girl, both of you are to play in the police station."

Patrick was rubbing his fractured collarbone and standing by the wall far from him, looking like a sulky cat that had been denied its daily saucer of milk. "You won't get away with this, whore!"

"Stay your tongue!" Holmes snapped, coughing from the dust that flogged the air in waves. He gave the other man a gentle push with the tip of his foot, sending him reeling against the wall. He regarded them all with languid distain before heading for the ugly stairs. Perhaps if his drug stupor hadn't have been so cloying and strong, he might have not been so quick to dismiss the two men. As soon as he had his back turned, they were on him again like injured rats pulling down a weasel. They pinched hold of the back tails of his cord jacket and yanked him. Holmes spun, trying to preemptive their sudden attack and aiming for their injuries. Patrick was the fattest out of the two but had the gravest injury. The other man skull bashed Holmes on the cranium, and for a brief few vital moments, all the detective could see were flashing colors of yellow and rosy darkness blobbing in and out between walls of sick purple. Then Patrick socked him in the stomach hard enough to severely damage his internals. Holmes fell down, winded and in great, great pain. His fall however, was silent.

Another man stepped lightly down the stairs. His ankle boots made careful work down dirt-smeared steps until he was in the hallway amongst the other two men who were breathing hard as if they had been chasing pheasants all day. The man clapped twice. It was a hard, brisk sound like ice snapping. Holmes looked up below the brim of his black faux hat. He tried to sit up but the pain only allowed him to rest pensively on one elbow while the rest of his body lay stiff with agony on the soiled carpet of the hall.

"Ah, the Great Detective has regaled us with his unsightly appearance." Spoke the new deep, husky voice of a man well dressed in his tailor blazer, cord trousers and tie, all in a deep midnight black except the tie, which stood out like a red dangling tongue.

Holmes frowned at the man. "Well, if it isn't Jack Silver, in a lee of crime and speaker of the abdominal. Pray, tell me how is it you've come to Earlstone?"

"Tis a long, long story, Mr. Holmes. One I can acquaint you with I suppose, during your stay here."

When Sherlock's vision finally settled into focus, he saw Jack Silver in the fullest detail. Jack had aged well. Once a younger man of twenty, he did petty crime. Mostly thieving, whoring and all that filth. "It's been some time, hasn't it, Silver? I can recall seeing your visage on the front page of The Star three times in the period of seven years. You are an interloper of sorts. Getting into trouble where trouble may be. You represent your kind with fierce disposition, and joined the Motley Gang during your stride to find your own destiny. You've been caught once by me over the bridge at Melberry when you were on the run after committing a murder in Cosplan Lane near Rose Farm. It was your wife you sexually assaulted before slitting her body into quarters that bleak November of last year."

Jack's silver eyes sharpened but it did not lose him his crooked smile. The smile revealed two front golden teeth.

"Oh god I just hate detectives. All of you inbred scum muck up people's lives. Lives who are doing their very best to make a bloody living!" That smile dropped from his face. A face that was creased in premature wrinkles while his eyes remained ageless and barren of fear. Like his eyes, his hair was also a lustrous silver and white. He was a tall, muscular man whose bones were thick as they were broad. It was this vitality alone along with his villainy that had made him so successful in the Motley Gang as he pushed and shoved his way to the front like a hungry puppy in an overcrowded litter. "You cost me two years in prison, Mr. Holmes. Two years of my life that I can never get back. My Gang turned their back on me when I escaped prison because I had killed a defenseless woman when it was she who tried to attack me that night! But you detectives can't deduce that, can you? You slander the men who fit the bill because you want another case closed. Your incompetence makes worms out of you!"

Holmes again tried to rise. His belly was flaring in spreading heat and he was sure goliath Patrick had busted his stomach. There was a muffled cry from upstairs. Weak and whispery, like paper rustling across a desk at night. There were nestled victims up there, no doubt it was April bound and gagged, and it was only now that he realized that actually he was in a spot of trouble. He had been weakened momentarily; surrounded good and hard by three men. And no one knew he was here except Watson who had gone off in a stormy rage so that he could cajole Mary unto infinity. He was not afraid, not just yet. The cocaine dragged out his strong emotions, making him less aware of what was taking place and how much of a disadvantage there was.

Silver stomped over, his boots making considerable smacking noises on the fouled carpet. Holmes went to roll away, but Patrick slammed the baton down on his skull while Silver grabbed his legs all in an instant. The detective didn't stand a chance.

Head bleeding, Holmes lulled away in black, empty dreams of pain for a time. He mulled over forgotten promises and figured he was back in his worn chair beside the fire. Watson was in the other chair opposite him quietly turning the pages of a book. Holmes was about to comment on what he was reading as he struggled to read the title when he saw with baleful shock that the book was upside down in Watson's grasp. When he looked up at the doctor, Watson's eyes were gone. In their placement was nothing but sullied black holes of gaping proportions while oil or black blood leaked from them; parading down his pale cheeks in greasy trickles and collecting on the collar of his shirt.

Holmes woke with a jerk, feeling terribly cold all over. His stomach was roaring with heat and pain as if someone had just filled his innards with fire and hot bits of mixed glass.

"Ah, awake, awake!" There was that clapping again. Holmes grit his teeth in annoyance. It seemed to make the hurt boil even brighter in his guts.

He was sitting up in a bare room with nothing but pale walls surrounding him and floorboards that were dotted with holes, blood stains and mud tracks. The window across from him he could just see over the thin mattress of the bed on his right side. But it had been blacked out with black cloth and boards. To lighten up the place, Jack and his fellow demons and used oil lanterns and candles. They sat on the floor like drops of hot light and cast ill shadows across the walls.

When he tried to move, he found that both his ankles and wrists had been clamped with leather bonds. His ankles had been tied together and his boots had been removed. Even his hat hung but mere feet away from him as it rested on the metal pole of the bed at the other end. His wrists were also cramped together at his back and he tried to jerk them free. It was a fruitless move, but he couldn't help but try regardless. Jack lifted his buttocks from the thin bed, and the springs ached in merciful freedom when his weight had gone. His favorite cord jacket was draped over Jack's arm like it was some little novelty won from defeating him.

"Where is Lucy April?" Holmes said at once, testing the leather bonds again. They didn't even give once. "I know that you have her. What do you intend to do with her? Beat and cut her like your wife? You are not very astute in your methods. Butchering another is hardly original in all of great London." Jack just stood there like a stony titan. "And what, pray tell me, will you gain from capturing me?" Holmes persisted, unafraid to stare back at Silver. "They'll hang you for this, you and your little rebellious children, Omen and…and the other one."

"Quite so, I believe. But we are escape artists and professional liars. It's how we pave our way of living, Mr. Holmes. As you detect and follow clues, we cheat and scurry like the little animals you so believe us to be. You want to know why I have you here?" Holmes nodded ever so slightly, his eyes following Jack scrupulously. "Fine. I'll tell you, aside from you putting me in that slimy prison cell beside a nutter that belonged in a kennel. My father died from falling down the stairs many years ago. I was eighteen years of age at the time of its happening. He smashed his head against an ornament of marble. My mother was blamed for his death by a detective called Mark Andrews. He said in his official statement that she had murdered him so that she would inherit the house in his will. My mother was then jailed for life over a simple household accident. Unable to cope, my mother died two years later."

"So you are but a stereotype then?" Holmes quietly mocked with cunning, flashing eyes. "Filled with rage? Waiting for the optimum time to take revenge? You are truly an unremarkable man, Silver. Has your angry wonderings led you to this?"

Jack reached out as suddenly as a lion and grasped Holmes's hair into his fist. Some of it was still bloodied from the baton Patrick had used to conk him out with. "You have it all wrong Mr. Holmes. Yes, I am, of nature, an angry man. I am quick to irate but easy to please. We have all been wronged one way or other. Patrick joined me because his brother was suffering from cholera and the doctors wouldn't even bother with him when he lay dying. The Law didn't help him. My other colleague, Murtle, is a great fan of animal fornication. There's nothing wrong with it, heck I loved stealing into pig pens at night and getting a good splurge from those things, but society doesn't like things like that. Did you know that pigs can orgasm for fifteen minutes, Mr. Holmes?"

"No. I did not. The information is irrelevant to me. However, I must begrudge you that you are sick of mind. All three of you need a doctor right this very instant!"

Jack smiled. It was a lurid, sickly sweet smile. His grip on Holmes's hair tightened. Still, the detective refused to voice the pain. He knuckled down on the agony and winced, venting the frustration by digging his nails into the heels of his palms. "Oh, there's nothing wrong with us." Jack sighed. He reached down with his other hand and began to stroke Holmes's groin. The detective shrank back at once, now issuing an angry cry. He bucked and managed to shove Jack away with his collected heels, but the fist grabbing his hair did not yield. "Welcome to the human condition. There is no great mystery as to how we work, Mr. Holmes. There is no underlining cause or anything trifling confusing. We are merely the servants to greed, lust, jealously and wrath. Each and every one of us is and will be. Humans are foolish to repress what they truly feel inside. What they truly _are_. Welcome to the jungle, Mr. Detective."

"So those people disappearing, are they all victims to your greed?"

"Undoubtedly. You can look in a moment. There'll be plenty of time." He reached forward and Holmes drank in the reek of Jack's stale breath that was meaty with alcohol. The man parted his chapped lips, revealing those gold teeth. Holmes pressed himself up against the wall as much as he could. "You see, every city has its monsters. London is no exemption to the rule. You might even enjoy this."

"Enjoy what, you inbred numbskull?"

Jack drove his head against the wall with one thrust of his hand that held onto his hair. Holmes heard a crunch in his skull and stars blew up into claps of pain. His throat was filled with low, agonized groaning as his chin rocked back down towards his collarbone, the back of his hair swathed in greasy blood. Jack let go of him, smiling all the same. "You are a small man behind your title. You do many wonders for people who call for you and ask for your services. You may think you know about us criminals, Mr. Holmes, but we know a lot about you and Dr. Watson too."

Droves of thorns sliced and diced inside his head. He didn't pay any particular attention to anything Jack was enunciating, and even if he did, it was of no relevance to him what Jack knew or didn't know. All he was concerned about was how the world swirled into fuzzy, dark chaos and how remarkably hot the back of his head felt. He wanted to go home now. He wanted to be back at Watson's side and snuggle by the fire beside his pile of books and dirty laundry. He blinked several times, eyes miserably watering. When he had swum back to the room, he saw that Jack was in the process of removing his dark trousers. He had already unclipped the belt and was using his greedy fat fingers to slide the material down his thin, skinny legs. Holmes bucked again, the attempts weaker this time. Jack more than easily held him down as the wall behind Holmes's head slowly grew redder.

"Shush, Mr. Holmes. This will be a lot easier if you don't struggle so!"

"Help!" Holmes shouted to the four walls. "Watson! Help me! For God's Sake! WATSON!"

"Is he yer boyfriend? For shame. You can do a lot better than that. And it's no use shouting. The old lady next door that reported on us once before? We fixed her good this time. We cut her tongue out and then shipped her off to Shanty Town. No one will miss her absence except her billions 'o cats."

"Watson…"

Jack pulled the trousers down until they had gathered at Holmes's bound ankles. Then with a push, he moved the detective so that he lay awkwardly on his side against the bloodied wall. By now Holmes was filling up with drunken terror. Little could ever scare him, and when Watson questioned him once on what he thought about fear, Holmes replied that fear sharpened the mind, and gathered one's wits all the more strongly. There was nothing shameful about being scared; it was all part about being human. What was so wrong about fear however, was that it was too easy for a man to panic and abandon his plans and all others therein. "Humans are obsessed with sex." Jack driveled as his cold fingers pressed against Sherlock's shivering inner thigh. The other hand was gently, shamelessly massaging his bony pelvis. Holmes could feel his broken, yellowing nails grate over his pale flesh as he boldly explored. "It's all in the history of mankind. The Greeks were obsessed with it, as were the Egyptians and the Romans. Not to mention the Aztecs and the Edwardians. All of them, compelled by fornication. You too must surely suffer the human condition from time to time?" He didn't allow Holmes the privilege to reply except for his occasional whimperings for the doctor as Jack began to grind his fingers around his member. This exacted a quivering jump from Holmes, who then employed his last energies into attacking. He swung himself up from the floor and brought both heels down on Jack's crotch with a satisfying crunch. Jack instantly recoiled away, not howling as Holmes had hoped to expect, but rather he was grumbling like an upset bear sore from not having his supper. Though half naked, the detective tried to squirm towards the shut door. Quick to recover from the shock of being hit hard in his privates, Jack smacked Holmes across his right cheek as though he was a near-sighted child in need of a good telling-off. "Men would pay good money to whores for being treated well, and here you are, fouling my services!" He kicked Holmes good and hard in the groin not once but four times in petty revenge. Holmes tried to protect himself, only to get his fingers nearly broken by Jack's swinging boot tips. Rolling away brought no effect. There was no rescue coming and nowhere to go. Jack's foot found him, and before long his privates were bloody and awash with pouring gore. His yowls of pain brought no rescue. Watson was far away both in mind and body in Mary's room perhaps, enjoying tea with the Forresters.

No one would ever come for him. He would die here, cottoned off from the world like a stuck rat under the floorboards where he would but rot; forgotten until one day someone would peel back the floorboards to find the source of an unwelcoming stench.

Jack knelt beside him, stroking his sweaty neck as if he had done no wrong. "Hush, little thing. Hush. That is what you get for disobeying Jack!"

Holmes didn't dare look down at his ragged manhood as he lay limp once again on the hard, cold boards. He could feel the blood pumping through his fingers in runny lamentation. Jack's penis swung into view above him. It was hard and erect. Holmes gulped, trying to look away but couldn't. His eyes were huge, pupils a marbled, glassy black. "Abscond from me! Leave me, you infidel!"

"Don't be such a cry baby." Jack was laughing deep from his belly.

Holmes tensed all over; sweat raining copiously down his chest and armpits when he felt Jack slide inside him once the large man gripped his shoulders and heaved him over so that he lay painfully on his stomach. Holmes tried to take his mind someplace else, someplace far, far away from this effigy of hell as Jack rocked inside of him. It was impossible to do at first, the pain was monumental and the feeling of being invaded filled him with loathing disgust and deep, deathly despair. The heat, the movments... He tried to see his Watson standing in the middle of a wheat field that had yet to be harvested. Watson was waiting for him in this hot, late afternoon evening. The sun was low in the sky like a red jewel. There was no wind either. Watson had his cane and was admiring its brass top as Holmes walked gently through the wheat stalks while the crickets sang their chirring melodies.

"Right on time, Holmes." John said with a shy twinkle of a smile.

"Fashionably."

XXX

"Enough, Holmes. Please. Enough." It was dark outside. The rain had begun again on a much fiercer note. And it was terribly cold. Water splattered on the thin, grimy windowpanes, making thick wet streaks. The sound however of the recent rainstorm did not nor could it drown out Holmes's tears. Watson held him chest to chest, Holmes's chin laying firm in the crook of his shoulder while he sobbed his heart out. John could do little else but hold him dearly, stroking his bony back and whispering useless little solaces into his ear. The tale had got too terrible to behold, and besides, Holmes had broken down long before then.

"He…he hurt me, Watson! He ravaged…he…he…"

"No more. It's over. You're safe. It's all behind you now. Forever. You have me."

"I do not!" He sobbed against his shoulder. "You have M-Mary! I have no o-one!"

"Don't be foolish. You have me. Mary will have to wait. I'm a doctor and I take care of people in need. I will not leave you. I'm just sorry that I wasn't there for you…" His own voice cracked and tears shivered like pale crystals down his cheeks. Holmes clutched him harder, weak fingers grasping Watson's thin undershirt. "I love you Holmes. I love you very dearly. Hush now. Sleep and when you feel better, you can continue. But not tonight."

Holmes lamented for a long time yet. His cries filled the whole room in a throe of sorrow. All Watson could do was rock him gently in his arms to and fro, encircling the small man protectively against him. Holmes cried until he had exhausted himself to sleep. Watson stayed up for a while yet, still rocking Holmes back and forth. The candle melted its cradle of wax and went out, and only John's wet eyes gleamed in the solitary darkness of a very heavy night. Again he was left with that feeling, that mixed up anguish of wanting to know, but dreading its outcome, dreading what lay next in Holmes's chapter.

* * *

**Dib07:** If you want more, please review! :) Please!


	9. Chapter 9 The Bravest

**Dib07:** I can't believe how long this chapter is! It's almost 9 pages long on my computer! Huzzah! Anyway, the reviews have really, really cheered me on, hence a quickish update for you all. Again I hope this chapter isn't too macabre, lol. I still cannot believe I am writing Sherlock Holmes fanfiction, wheras a decade ago I avoided the franchise/stories like it was the plague. I'm so glad that isn't me anymore! Hazzah for movies!

**Margo:** Hiya! Thanks for your honest words and kind review. I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much!

**I'd sign in but ffnotworking: **Och! Luckily mine was fine when I uploaded the story but FFN can be like that sometimes. BTW there were clues to a certain person coming from chapter 7 I THINK it was, with Mycroft in it, so lol you gave away the surprise there but oh well! Hahaha! BUT will it be enough to save him? XD

**Tony's Captain:** Your profile pic is awesome by the way! I hope you like this chapter as much as the last one. My fingers are crossed!

**Edwards-Ebed:** I tried to PM you but your private messaging blocked me lol, so I thank you personally here! Lol, I so know what you mean about suspence, so here it is! Double quick! Though this might make your excitment all the worse! ;) Read this chapter, harrr harrr!

**Anon:** yes indeed!

XXXXxxxxxxXXXX

**Chapter 9: The bravest**

"Come on, old cock, you're letting this place go to hell." Watson tried to state as gently as one could as he moved about a room that was steadily shrinking with all the clutter it possessed. It was like the room was filing up of its own simple accord when one's back was turned. As it so happened, Watson was gathering Holmes's tired clothes that had sullied into heaps and heaps and throwing them over his arm as he tried to bring organization into a chaotic maze of _stuff_. There were stacked plates with dried bits of food cemented onto them. Clothes hangers were sticking out of scarves and hats like bones. "How you can find anything in this place is beyond me." He started kicking the stray plates into one big messy, rebellious pile. The noise changed. Instead of Watson's boot herding the plates the _clanging_ became low, grunting sounds. Holmes opened his eyes to almost pitch blackness. He steadied himself from the sudden, surging shock flooding his sleepy body. He was not at home. He was still in 29 Earlstone house, or so he guessed. The sounds that had so pulled him hatefully out of his heaven of dreams were the sounds of loud snoring. He was hard pressed to tell exactly who was slumbering so tumultuously, but he assumed it had to be Jack.

The only shred of light to comfort him was a pale gleam of candlelight poking through the space under the door directly opposite him. He had no idea whether it was day or night. The blackouts hugging the windows gave him not one clue how long he had been unconscious for and the snoring was coming from the bed only a few yards to his right.

Breathing thinly through taut lips, Holmes went to right himself. He had been lying upon the boards all this time like some limp fish, and when he tried to move all his muscles seemed to conjoin as one and hiss with stiffness and somber discomfort. A few in his back and shoulders tinged and nerves that had been suffocated from lack of blood flow danced back into chilled, itchy life. And he was very, very cold. He was soon shivering, which didn't help with his tender region. Ankles and hands still bound, Holmes attempted to pull his trousers back up his legs which was no easy endeavor, he had to admit. He had to lie back down again on the floor and curl his body into a fetal position by bringing his bare knees to his chest so that his fingers could snag at the trousers pooling above his ankles. However, doing such a thing began to jerk his manhood into a seething fever where it once had been numb and blissfully asleep. Right now, dignity was a much more profound accommodation than pain. And yes, it did become very hard not to yelp or whimper during this process that should have been a simple, painless affair. Waking up Jack or whoever lay sleeping close by would be a costly mistake he could not afford.

Holmes could hear the wind yowling sadly outside, its wailing notes of profuse despair always so comforting when he sat by the fire with Watson reading next to him in reverent silence. And though the weather outside was but seven feet from him and through a brick wall, the outside world had never felt so very far away.

It took Holmes all of twenty minutes to slowly inch his trousers back up again, doing his utmost best to mute his cries. Some part of him broiled in rage for having been reduced to this, but his other feelings of fear and despair stormed it flat. He was still alive, and that had to count for something.

He worked at the bounds on his wrists while he lay on the dusty floor when he had managed to pull the trousers up to his sore rear. He could hear rats scuttling inside the walls and a faucet tap dripping close by. Sometimes he could hear horses passing the house outside as cabs took their paying customers this way and that, which told the detective that it had to be nightfall, or else the custom would surely be a lot busier and he would hear the gossip of people as they walked by.

The bonds were indeed leather, but they were frayed and old. Thanks to his gauntness, he managed to slip out one hand, quickly followed by the other. He closed his eyes and exhaled gladly with warm relief for a single, peaceful moment. He brought his hands to his chest, grimacing terribly at the ache in his shoulders. He was too old for this. Arthritis, brought on early by so much fighting and the cold had made his shoulders miserable contenders for labor, and in summer the arthritis sagged away leaving him free. The pain only returned when winter was heavy, or with any heavy-duty work that followed. Watson's shoulder and neck massages lulled away the aches, but now he had to lie for some time on Jack's floorboards from the horrific cramping.

Eventually, head reeling with tugging faintness, he sat up again, pulling the waist of the trousers back round his pelvis and reconsidering whether or not he should zip up his fly. His crotch (he could feel himself there with his hands now) was wet and cold with blood. When he raised his fingers to his eyes he could just about see the blood and semen painted there from the languid candlelight shining balefully under the door. He was no doctor, and studied little of human physics, that department he always left to Watson. Catching a criminal was Holmes's game. But now, in the weak light, feeling all this pain and touching all this blood, he knew his injury was more than bad. His scrotum may have spilt or his penis may have been crushed entirely, leading to internal bleeding just as prolific.

_Peeing is going to be such a delight. I can hardly wait,_ Holmes thought in bitter rue. Peeing would probably just about kill him with agony, he was sure. Urine was like acid on wounds and it would leak through the holes Jack was so joyfully made.

He did the zipper on his fly, wincing angrily, but somehow finding the inner strength to swallow up his screams that would have woken the underlords in hell from their dark slumber. At once the fabric began to soak up the fluids. The man snoring did not stir.

Swallowing dryly and forcing back a cough, Holmes began to push himself along the floor backwards using his heels and hands, ignoring the groan in his shoulders and head. He dragged himself in this fashion until he felt the security of the wall at his back in the inky darkness. He shuffled along the wall for another few moments until he had pushed himself right into the corner by the door. For his efforts he allowed himself a fair treat that consisted of rest for sixty seconds. Then, when all was still quiet and unchanged, Holmes pulled off the restraints holding his ankles and made to stand. It was a wobbly engagement, and he clung to the wall like an old man in case he leaned too far away and fell. Gore, new and warm, spread across the crotch of his trousers and down his inner thigh while his head was a whirl of fragmented colors. He tumbled to the door like an irate sleepwalker, his cold hands groping for the iron handle. He pushed it down and the metal shutter pulled back with a gentle, satisfying click. He pulled the door open, his hazel eyes flashing with triumph. "How do you like that, you uncouth barbarians?" He couldn't help but mutter under his breath. He limped and staggered through the doorway with barely any coordination of his legs. It was a wonder he walked out at all. He even took the time to close the door behind him, trying to make it look as though he hadn't had the audacity of leaving. But it was all he could manage. Trembling now, he sagged onto his knees on the cold corridor of the landing where the wind and rain outside sounded that much closer and that much more real. Like a broken animal, he again crawled to the far wall, shoulders heaving up and down in tune with his chest as he gulped down air. His heart was in overdrive. "Barbarians… Oh gods, Watson…how innate of me to think that the only vermin in London were rats. I know everyone is capable of being vulgar…but these vermin…" Talking to himself seemed to settle his dancing nerves and the bleeding downstairs had slowed to a dull, slow beat. The candlelight he had seen from under the door was fixed to the wall on an iron bracket. As he sat there, looking at it in stupid wonder, looking like a priest that was seeing God, he heard something close by behind him. It was a girl's voice. And she was crying. The sobs were steady and muffled, and for good reason.

Holmes turned himself towards the noise and looked across at the very next door adjacent to his. This door was open by a mute fraction and light was coming from it also. There was no telling what lay in wait for him beyond the door however. He rolled his eyes. If Watson were here now, he knew what he would do.

Putting himself to the task, he shuffled like a toddler across the carpet. Keeping himself busy was good. Very, very good. Escape was priority only once he had rounded up and helped Jack's other victims. Focusing on tasks therefore kept his troubled mind at a distance from what Jack had done to him. Rape was not a concept he seldom thought of or cared about and had remained simply that; a word thrown around sometimes when a case referred to something as such. Now it implied everything. A virgin no more he was. And it had not been a colorful experience he had been so hoping to receive. Adler being his first choice, and now he had been outdone by a grotesque man with a penis the size of a battleship.

The sobbing was getting closer. He inched his way to the open door and peered in. The room was rather much like his had been. The walls were bare of any decoration except the foul lacing work of peeling wallpaper left for decades to hang and gather mould and fungus. He could just about see the girl's face. She was chained to the bedposts. They had used her wrists as they cross-crossed over one another in the shape of an X and chains had tightened her flesh until her hands had gone white with blood loss. Her cheeks were slick with tears. Her dress had been shredded and lay upon her bosom and torso like frayed strips of newspaper. Her bare legs and arms were also blackened by bruise marks.

He took a quick observation around him. The house remained sleeping. The only thing he could hear now was his heart drumming heavily in his ears. Annoyingly, when he was taken in after being knocked unconscious, he had been unable to get a good lay of the rooms and where everything was, but that was of little concern. The interior looked and was most likely like all East End Victorian houses. Small, cramped and with only three bedrooms upstairs with no bathroom.

He smeared red from his hand across his shirt and shuffled into the room.

She was a pretty little thing, really, save for the blood smeared across her chin, the purple blemishes frolicking her limbs and her sullen, defeated air. She looked like she was ready to die. He wondered if he looked any better.

When he shuffled in, she jerked her head up, sure that it was Jack's boys come to do away with her, or worse. They stared at one another for too long a time when time was all they had as a weapon. Strawberry blonde hair had fallen across her eyes of deep, flashy blue. Holmes put a finger to his lips. She nodded quietly, though she did not look particularly hopeful at his sudden appearance. Again, Holmes stole a moment to check the room. There was no one around. Just a wardrobe, the bed and a landscape painting that hung beside the door in a handsome ebony frame of dark rosewood. But it was the painting itself that truly startled Holmes. The oil painting was of a dog; a black wolfish creature with bodiless eyes of pearl white. The dog was turned forwards so that it stared at whoever looked upon it, and its shaggy fur was grisly and wild. The background was of deep woodland while the dog dripped blood from its glistening maw.

"My goodness!" He gasped, forgetting to mute his voice. He forced himself to turn away, yet even so he felt the dog's great glowing eyes forge holes into his back. He focused on the girl at hand and crawled up to her enough to inspect the chains entombing her delicate wrists. The chains had been secured by a padlock, one that could be picked open rather easily by a pin or a knife. And there was none laying about here. "Are you Lucy April, my good lady?" He sounded like half the man he was ten hours ago. Even his vocal cords trembled.

She shook her head. "They killed her." She whispered. "April was cut up in the bathtub. I watched the whole thing. My name is Mandy. Mandy Lustran. And who might you be?"

"Sherlock Holmes." He smiled faintly, wriggling the chains here and there. They would not loosen like his leather buckles did. "This is a most unfortunate predicament. How did you come to be in such an asylum?"

"I think his name is Jack. The tall one that tells the others what to do." Holmes nodded. "Well, he says that when he kills, he sees that dog in the painting. Jack says it's God. I think it's the devil."

"And do you believe him?"

"I saw the dog myself, sir. Right before he butchered April I saw the creature in the front garden."

"And what was it doing?"

"Watching the house. Watching us."

Holmes shook his head in a mixture of disgust and not wanting to believe. "What drugs have you all been sniffing, hmm? Must be the opium. How many more of you are within this place?" He tore off one of his buttons from his shirt and proceeded to jam it into the lock. When this proved fruitless he turned to the wardrobe and gently opened each drawer in search of something sharper.

"There is just Patrick and me now. Tom and April are dead."

"Patrick Omen?"

"That is correct. He is my stepbrother."

He found a nail in one of the drawers, as most were empty or filled with books. This he used to spring the lock and Mandy let her wrists rest in her lap. Holmes began shuffling back towards the door. "We must proceed, woman. Do not sit and ponder."

"I will not follow you." She said. "Your efforts are in vain. There is no escape, and if they catch me out of this room they will do awful things to me."

Holmes hesitated. "What did Jack do to Tom?"

"That I am unsure, but usually they throw the bodies down in the cellar and some they leave for the dog in the bathtub. The rats have their fill and there is less smell. I suggest you go back to your room before they find out or they'll do worse to you than that." And she nodded at the bloodied patch between his legs. Holmes gave her a begrudged look.

"Pray, I need your help." He said insistently. "The way outside leads just downstairs. If we hurry they will be none the wiser."

"Have you not seen the bolts on that door? Without the key, you are going nowhere. Now get out. If they see us consulting we'll have our tongues ripped out."

Holmes gave her one last look before shuffling back out again, leaving a red streak across the floor as he did so. It took him another five minutes to reach the end of the landing where the staircase began. He half shuffled down it, slapping his hand to the wall as he descended, leaving bloodied handprints in his wake. When he had got halfway downstairs, the doorbell rang. The only blackouts not on the windows were the small slits on either side of the door. This revealed to Holmes that it was indeed early daylight outside. He had awoken around dawn, and while he had got his wrists and ankles free, then went to see Mandy, the sun had long since risen. He had been in this house for almost fourteen hours.

Patrick shambled to the door half asleep in the hallway. He had come out of the kitchen and he had to check his clothing to make sure nothing was amiss. It was then that he placed on his disguise of the moustache and straw-like hair when really he was a deep brunette and clean shaven. Holmes watched him through the rails of the banister in frozen horror. If he so much as moved down or up, he'd be heard or seen.

Patrick got out a small silver key from his waistcoat pocket and undid the top latch before sliding all the bolts away. He opened the door to a crisp, clear morning.

"Hullo there." Said an unfamiliar voice outside. Holmes was seconds away from screaming and shouting. "I've come to do a routine check of all the houses in this neighborhood."

"Whatever for?" Patrick slurred. He was still blinking in the sunlight.

"This man has gone missing." There was a pause. Holmes could imagine the man revealing a photograph of himself to Patrick. "Disappeared early last night. His last port of call was at this very house. Have you seen him?"

"Well, no. Of course not. No one of that resemblance came by here."

"Are you sure, sir? I'm afraid I have a warrant to search this place."

"But of course." A touch of color had blemished Patrick's face. He looked nervous. "Do come in. I have a fresh pot of tea ready, as a matter of fact. Do you care for a sip?"

"I really should be working, but I suppose one cup o' tea can't hurt."

"Ah yes, but have you tried brandy in tea? It really is exquisite!"

Holmes was ready to pounce down the stairs at breakneck speed, injured groin or not. He would yell at the officer and demand that they arrest everyone except the poor girl upstairs. But it was not to be. Just as Holmes went to get up, a hand reached out behind him and collared his neck with a belt. Jack, strong and heavy, leaned Holmes back as the detective floundered, his fingers trying to dig against the leather strip suffocating his windpipe. Patrick stalled the officer at the door a little longer by talking about women. The officer was in a talkative mood while Holmes was dragged back up the stairs again.

Back on the landing, Jack allowed Holmes to suck in a tiny breath before slamming the belt back into his throat.

"Tough old boy, aren't ya?" Jack whistled between gritted teeth. "Didn't think you had it in ya. Tough indeed." He ignored the desperate gurgling chokes he got in return. Holmes bunched against him, trying to wriggle this way and that, hands at his throat. Jack pulled him towards the girl's room. "Naughty, naughty. Look, you've been everywhere! Blood stains all down me carpet! You little rotter!" Just as Holmes was about to pass out, hands leaving the belt as convulsions washed over him, Jack loosened the belt and slung him into the floor in front of Mandy. Holmes broke down, fighting to breathe. Weak and cold, he allowed the strength to run through the cracks of his spirit while he panted. The floor against his face felt good.

"And undoing my lady's chains too? You do get around!" Jack rapped the belt on the floor for a bit of amusement, liking the way the girl flinched each time it cracked on the floorboards.

Holmes opened his eyes, throat hot with thorns. Again he was greeted by the sight of the black dog as it stood staring down at him from its ebony frame.

They all heard the police officer enter the house downstairs. He wore clanking boots, and Patrick led the man into the kitchen for that promised cup of tea.

"One word from either of ya," Jack told them menacingly, "and it's lights out. I can take care of that officer easily, so don't think you have a hope."

There were more shuffles downstairs. The scream of the kettle as it came to a boil and the murmurings of two men having a good chat. Meanwhile Jack surveyed his captives like a butcher surveying his plump pigs as the date for slaughter draws near. There was more talk downstairs and not much else happening. Time passed and finally Patrick was opening the door again to let the officer out. "What a fine man you are!" The officer was saying as he stepped out through the doorway. "Tis a pity I don't meet more people like you. Do you go to the Dock's Pub on Saturdays?" Patrick replied but it was too quiet for Holmes to catch. "Ah, I see, well no matter! I was never a drinking man much until I got this job! Be seeing you then, and keep an eye open for the man I showed you. Goes by the name of Sherlock Holmes. I have to check all the houses on this side 'o the street. Busy, busy!"

"I shall look out for him. Good day to you." And the door closed. Holmes felt another door in his heart also close just as sorrowfully. There truly was no hope. _Prognosis,_ he thought, eyes staring at crumbs on the floor, _a long and agonizing death. Resistance will only recompense me with more pain, of which my body can only tolerate so much. Getting out alive is unlikely. Getting out in a body bag is much more promising._

XXX

Watson started on the sutures to close the various split wounds that were hot and yellow with infection. He had used alcohol primarily before undertaking this delicate task. The only reason he had not done this before was because it had been bandaged up beforehand by the doctor at the hospital. Only when Holmes had needed to pee had Watson undone the bandages, sure that the wounds would heal. They had not and intervention was required.

Dazed with morphine, Holmes was cynical and apprehensive at first, more from shame than anything, but as the drug kicked in, he became more lax under Watson's care. He lay on the bed with the blankets tenderly covering his thorax and bandaged chest while his best friend first cleaned and then started stitching. Half an hour before, Watson had gone up to Mrs. Hudson asking her how many sheets Holmes had bled on. The landlady said rather ruefully; "four mattress sheets so far and two wool blankets." A clear indication that the bleeding had not stopped, despite the bandaging. When asked what she had done with the sheets, she replied that she had burnt them. He gave her ten pennies. "Can you buy some more please? The soft kind? Thank you."

"Do I look r-ruined, Watson? Do y-you have to look while you're s-stitching?" His quivering voice, woozy with morphine, had weakened over the course of the day. His body was besieged by another fever and he had all the symptoms of septicemia, of which there was no cure. Antibiotics were a far off invention, and without it, Holmes stood little chance of surviving from infections inside and out.

"It is a requirement to look, yes." He gave Holmes an offhand smile. "Besides, war wounds always spice up the ladies."

"Is t-t-that a fact?" He coughed hard into his cupped hand. Watson paused and looked up, seeing the fresh blood peppering his friend's lips and hand where he had just coughed. "I'm so h-hot…"

"You're bone cold, old boy. I'm not going to strip you of blankets. Last time I did that you couldn't stop shivering."

"Do you….d-do y-you…" His voice croaked into a whisper and Watson peered up from his work. Holmes had closed his eyes. Watson would have started in alarm if he had not seen Holmes's chest rise as he breathed. It was funny really; how the doctor had never felt true fear until now. If he himself were at death's door, it was but a passing fact; a matter of uncontrollable events whereas an impending battle left little time to ponder one's fate, as he had found out during his past adventures with Holmes. But now, as Holmes lay dying; Watson had never been so scared in all his life.

"Holmes?" He asked quietly.

The detective's eyes opened. "Where h-have I been?"

"Right here. On the bed."

"How long h-h-have I been asleep f-for?"

"Five seconds. You were about to tell me something, then you sort of…nodded off."

Holmes did not return with a snarky reply. His eyes were closing again. He was too exhausted to get up to use the bedpan now, and he barely managed his drinks. Watson was trying to think of a way to help him, and help him get rid of the infection but he was all out of ideas. "That was w-when the cleaver c-came into it, dear Watson."

He was on his third stitch now. "You had it?"

"No. They d-did. At f-f-first."

XXX

The picture of the dog stared down, its malignant eyes full of wondering hate. They sat Holmes in front of the girl. The stink from the bathroom wafted down the narrow landing where the smell then leaked its putrid odors into this room. He had yet to see the bathroom, and knew that the Victorian house's conversion to accommodate one was rare. Usually in every household the toilet was in a shack outside.

Mandy's hands were still untied, and her wormy fingers rested on her lap as if her hands were not her own. Murtle came in. Sherlock glanced upward to get another good look at the man's face. He was bearded and still unkempt from last he saw of him, the facial hair a dark shade of ginger. His brow was heavy, as was his neck muscles and hands. He was most likely to be of Norsemen build, or at least had Viking blood in him. "Jack," he began without pause, "we have to leave while we still can! That officer could have come up them bloomin' stairs and seen everything! I don't want to go to prison! Do you know what they'll do to us? They'll hang us, one by one! I have children to think about!"

Jack had knelt down beside Sherlock. The cleaver; a clean butchering tool; gleamed bright and vindictive in his hairy right hand. Holmes gave it careful watch. "Children?" Jack retorted, his throat grumbling with laughter, "You have many, all by whores! You don't care one whit about them! Besides, you were all for this a week ago! You just want out because you've had your way with all the others and now you are bored."

Murtle grew silent, chewing his lower lip abstractly. Sherlock was too taken by the cleaver to really pay much attention to Jack's conversation. There was indeed conflict among the three men, and there was an opportunity where one might try to use it against them, but Jack's will held sway over Patrick and Murtle too dominantly.

"Here, Mr. Holmes." Jack prodded the handle of the butcher's tool against Holmes's left hand. "Take it!"

The detective drew back a fraction, admittedly lost by Jack's motive while his train of conjectures floundered in his mind like torn feathers. "You desire me to take it?"

Jack nodded. "Aye. No man should fight without a weapon."

As soon as Holmes's bony fingers went to wrap around the handle, Jack pressed his own hand down over Sherlock's with great strength. Murtle swept round as quickly as a cat and forced Mandy's hand down into the floor just inches from Holmes's knees. Jack made Holmes lift the cleaver, his fingers had entwined with his so that he could not loosen his grip from the handle. Jack's beefy arm trapped the detective's left shoulder, while Silver's free hand gripped an iron baton. It was a small cudgel used for knocking blocks of furniture into place if a hammer was too small. It was also used for beating animals. On the baton's tip was a brass arrowed tip.

"Do you want to save the girl, Mr. Holmes?" Jack's breath was hot in his ear. It made the detective shiver in disgust before he gave a small nod. "Not very loud, are you, mister detective? Lost your thunder? I said, do you want to save the girl, or is she rubbish to you?" He knocked the brass arrow against his ribs beneath the cloth of his shirt. A light peck was hard enough to cause his bones to flare in cold numbness.

"Yes!" He shouted, letting Jack know just how angry he was.

"Good. I know you fight injustice in your own way. You want to be a good person, and you want what's best for the victims of the criminals. You help because it's in your blood. Now, listen carefully." The edge of his cheekbone pressed into Holmes's sweaty hair while the end of the baton tapped idly on his chest. "And I'll help you, because I am Jack Silver. See her fingers? I want you to cut them off. She doesn't need them. Women like her just clean dishes and give birth. She'll have the use of one hand, and that'll be enough. Then she can walk out of this house, free as a bird!"

"I am not maiming her!" Holmes snarled, eyes darting to Murtle, to Mandy and then back to Jack again whose nose was almost touching his. "You have no right to conduct such actions!"

"If you don't do as I say, Murtle here will slit her breasts off and she'll bleed to death."

Holmes looked into his face and saw that he was not lying. He knew when people were telling the truth and this was a sure example of it. He passed his gaze to Mandy who remained sitting on the floor across from him, her eyes dark and cloudy with acceptance. Again Jack's strong, muscular hands squeezed on Holmes's fingers and the cleaver was raised.

At the last moment, Holmes leaned into Jack's shoulder, eyes shut as the broad knife came down on Mandy's fingers where the joints connected the bone to the knuckles. Mandy jolted upward with a flourishing scream. Murtle punched her in the face to silence her, one hand still wresting her arm to the floor. The first hit had not completely severed the fingers, and when Jack guided Holmes's hand down again to repeat the action, Patrick came in. "Sweet, merciful Jesus!" He yelled, "You promised you'd leave her alone! You lied! You fucking lied to me!"

Jack got up to confront Patrick once the disconnected fingers lay in a row on the floor. The bloodied cleaver slid out of Holmes's slack fingers and hit the floor with a finalizing thud. His heart was pounding both in his throat and his chest. Mandy was sobbing. She trailed her maimed hand across the floor as through it were the end of a severed tail.

"I did everything you asked!" Patrick continued.

"Yes, you did. But you fucked up didn't you? You let that nosy neighbor report us. Luckily Holmes was dumb enough to come on his own, but it could have gone differently. Clean Mandy up and send her to the bathroom. Me and Murtle are packing our bags."

"You always wanted_ him_, didn't you?" He nodded down at Holmes who was staring languidly at the cleaver. "It wasn't about the pigs, or April and Tom. You just wanted Sherlock Holmes here because you like cock. Well, you have him! Let _me_ go!"

"You can go, but not yet. I have one more assignment for you." He passed the baton into Patrick's hands. "Me and Murtle have a train to catch on Friday. That's tomorrow. I want you…" He took Patrick by the shoulder and led him out of the room so that Holmes could not catch the rest. Mandy had passed out and now sat slumped against the bedpost while Murtle was doodling with his finger in her warm, sticky blood.

XXX

"He was just doodling….drawing lines…in her blood, like a child…" Holmes had curled up on his side under the covers, pupils large and watery. He hadn't managed his breakfast at dawn, or the emergency follow-up meal of soft foods warmed especially using the stove two hours later. Both he had vomited up, and both had been bloody. Breathing short and quick as if he had just outraced himself through London, he had trailed off after Mandy's unfortunate loss of her fingers from her left hand. "His eyes were somber, dark and feral. It was not the first time he h-had done such a thing, I could tell. Drawing…with his finger…as she sat limp…"

Watson's fingers, warm and confident, laced their way around Holmes's cold ones and held them there. "Holmes, I'll get Mrs. Hudson to arrange a cab to take you to hospital."

"Watson…" His wide eyes sharpened once from the haze they were lost behind, "Do n-not send me there, old boy. They can't help me, y-you see. I am dying."

"Don't say such a thing. You are not!" He gripped his hand harder, looking as angry as he felt, though deep down he knew that it was foolish to think that he could hide anything from Holmes. The detective saw through everything, and if it was not his own failing condition he detected, it was the look on John's face.

"I am f-feverish…can't handle simple foods or even w-water… I haven't even the s-strength to sit up… There is no cure for acute i-i-infection. It will overwhelm me, and I p-presume by now that the infection is in my blood well and truly. I will d-die. It is elementary, my dear Watson…"

"Shut up!" Was Watson's first selection of words as the shock filled him. With his other hand he cupped Holmes's face and looked into hooded eyes that were slowly losing their focus. "You are staying right here, whether you bloody like it or not! If you leave me now or in the next twenty years I will be so furious with you!" Holmes smiled weakly, whether at what was being said or because Watson looked so ridiculous whenever he was mad with him. "If you leave me, Sherlock, I will never forgive you! Ever!" He felt the tears come. Unwelcoming and warm. He tried to close his eyes to hide them but still they fell. "You bastard! I hate crying. Look what you made me do!"

Holmes lifted his hand, a task that took great effort, and tenderly touched Watson's smooth cheek, wiping away the salty tears. His delicate smile remained for a fading moment. "I'm sorry for coming between y-you and Mary, my dear Watson… I just couldn't bear to be without y-you… t-that's all."

"Well, as from today I give you all the permission you like to come between us!" He tried smiling but Holmes's gentle hand on his cheek made him want to break down all over again.

"Watson?"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"John… Be brave."

"What? But I don't…" Holmes's hand dropped back down and his eyes rolled into the back of his skull. Watson shrieked out; "No! Don't you dare!" There was no response. It was all happening too fast. John took him by the shoulders and tried shaking him, but to no avail. He was slipping through his fingers like sand. "Sherlock!" Using his medical knowledge, John carefully slipped Holmes off the bed and laid him down on the floor where he could proceed if his partner were to stop breathing, and he hoped to the gods that it wouldn't come to that.

At the most stressful of moments when he least needed to be distracted a knock came on Holmes's door. If it was Mrs. Hudson she had picked a bloody good time to deliver tea. "It's open!" He yelled, not caring how aggressive he sounded. He turned back to Holmes who had sagged in his arms like a ragdoll. His fast, ragged breathing that had been a persistent respiration rate for the last few days had now decreased to frighteningly faint exhales.

The door opened. Watson looked up; ready to issue Mrs. Hudson orders to grab his medical bag and get out various items when he saw who it was. He had to draw in a sharp breath and new hope rose in his chest and spirit.

Irene Adler stood poised at the door, looking elegant and sleek in a black dress, neck scarf and bonnet. The bonnet she held in her hand and the fact that she had not hung the hat downstairs suggested that she did not expect to stay here for long. Now her fixed, trained mask of composure shattered and sheer panic had frozen her in place.

"Will you help me?" He pleaded, not giving a damn if he was sobbing out the words.

Irene stepped towards him cautiously as if the room were filled with toxic gas. Her eyes were fixed on the detective's slumped form.

Watson gazed back down at his friend, feeling Sherlock tremble in his arms. Holmes's last words ghosted through his head. _'John…Be brave.'_

He mentally replied back, cradling him as Irene knelt down._ 'I can't, Holmes! No amount of war can harden me for this!'_

"John, you're panicking. Look at me." Her voice was like an anchor in the tide of blistering sorrow. All he saw was the end. Somehow though, he managed to crank his chin upward to glance at her. There was an underlining of mettle in her voice, and it brought back some clarity. "You're a doctor and it looks like I am going to be your assistant."

"Why are you even here?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "I'll explain later! Right now there are more pressing issues at hand!"

"My…my bag is by the fresh pile of linen," John said, nodding over at the far side of the room. "I need the hypodermic needle and the vial labeled M.O.R."

She quickly hurried over to the bag. She didn't even complain at the weight as she almost strained to lift it.

John combed his fingers through Holmes's graying hair, noticing how much white was flecked in the strands. "I can't be brave without you…" Tears ran down his cheeks anew and there was no one to wipe them away this time. "I can't!" He cradled him tight, and didn't hear Miss. Adler as she asked for further instructions. "I can't be brave. Not without you!"

* * *

**Dib07:** And that's it for now, lol. If Holmes is out for the count, don't worry because what went on 'in that house' will be concluded next chapter (somehow), and we'll find out just how Holmes ended up under the bed and with Patrick being dead. I thank you all again for the huge support! This story could not have been done without the praise. Seriously. Well, until next time folks! :) BTW sorry about the cliffhanger! The chapter was getting too long! XD

See, **Edwards!** See! Now the cliffhanger is even worse! XD


	10. Chapter 10 Dark Defender

**Dib07:** How long has it been? Sorry all, but work has had me buckled and imprisoned for pretty much the last few months, of which this very story has been one. Well, here is the new chapter, enjoy! And apologises for the massive delay! *_*

**Valiant Wolf:** Hope you enjoy this new chapter too! And thanks! :)

**Snickerdoodle Black: **Hahaha, I am very lazy too, so I will message you here instead, if you don't mind! Yeah, I am glad the spelling is okay, and though I proof-read my work, I am always impatient with my own writing, so I tend to overlook mistakes easily. As for you not wanting Holmes to die…hmmm. You do know that I am a notorious character killer, right? Right? I shall say no more!

**LadyCibia: ** Wow! You have touched me so much, I am serious. I am chuffed at your words, and I am so very pleased and humbled that you consider my little story to be your favourite. I hope it will continue to do so! :D You are too kind! RDJ and Jude are such clever actors I agree, and if it wasn't for them I would never have touched this franchise! Thank you again, LadyCibia, I hope you are still reading, and if you are, I shake you by the hand! ^_^

**NoFFAccount: **Oh gosh, I kinda made you wait at least 3 or even 4 months didn't I? I be bad! Sorry! Yeah, cliffhangers suck, and I am one of the reasons why they suck because of the poor speed of which I update! I doubt even Watson himself would be impressed! Anyway, I am so very happy you are thrilled and kept on the edge of your seat. As a reader, I look for this kind of nail-biting material also, and strife hard to re-capture it. Thanks! :D

**Sherrlilyn: **Glad you are enjoying! Sorry for my terrible lateness! But thanks for staying with me and reminding me, it was very thoughtful of you, and here I am letting you down. You are too awesome.

**Carlchas: **Tough request there! My fics generally are depressing! There are some that aren't but my fics aren't all stars and rainbows, sorry! Reality is often a horrible place to live, hence why my stories reflect such pain because I've been there, and it isn't nice. BTW Irene is just support, not a nurse, and yes, a miracle would be nice for Watson and Holmes both!

**Paula Rushing: **I hope you got my message on the top of my profile page, if not, then not to worry! :) Thanks for the on-going support and loving reviews! You really have prompted me, and here is your answer! Enjoy…and the conclusion…well, how good it is depends on the reader! I am but the messenger!

* * *

**Chapter 10: Dark Defender**

My final chapter was coming.

I knew I had very little choice about its outcome.

I never gave Death much thought. Death was always the Great Mystery, a thing that was pushed to the far reaches of my mind, a dark thought; a brief acknowledgement, a fact of life, and all of that which is born, must end. As a detective, I saw much of men who had committed great atrocities, cardinal sins, great, harrowing errors that they tried to cover up. You see, Jack Silver was no different. Though I remember his face, the way he walks, his hunch, his bellow, his speech, the rest of the man I find, I cannot recall much else, let alone of Murtle and his girl chained to the bedpost before a vulgar portrait of a mad man's devotion.

Jack left many an impression on me, of which will be recalled later, much to my indignity. Jack may have outwardly looked like the lewd, heathen creature that ruled the circus of London – for he was indeed one of the monsters you'd chance to frequent at a carnival of horrors, in the mirror mayhap, or in the maze of blood and screams. He was in fact, my drug dealer in times still invariably recent. I met my Dr. John Watson in 1881, seven years ago, and before we met I went to Bart University to study basic anatomy. Never a stranger to the needle, Jack was a close University student, and it was he who showed me how to boil heroine and how to dose it. Always been hooked on the drug himself, he demonstrated to me how invigorating it was; how soothing and how liberal it was!

And indeed it was. It provided artificial stimulation when nothing in life gave or inspired me, and when London was as flat and as plain as the country air. Jack helped me, as much as poisoned me. And in the dark cavern of my heart, I craved, accepted and lived for drugs. It unlocked solace unimagined and what the common man cannot, or ever understand.

Years went by, and I met Watson, who was introduced to me by my former colleague, Stamford. We lived together. We became friends on a deep level, and Jack was forgotten. Only until we crossed paths yet again did I see what the drug had done to him. He had challenged, risked and survived to gain vaster sums of money, and pawned it over for sex or drugs. No stranger to fornicating men, he became a sombre bully who embraced his own shadow, yet would never find love or peace in his heart. I could have followed the same path. You may find it hard to believe. I, Sherlock Holmes, to live the life as a conventional criminal? Pshaw! But often the sides on the chess board; white and black, are as similar as they are different. Firstly I had no moral ardour. When a man or woman eluded their case to me, I gave little feelings to the murdered/kidnapped persons involved. I was only interested in the case, and the intricacies involved. So I was rather a heartless individual, a side of me Watson does not admire.

Secondly, I lived only for the game! The chase! Whatever enveloped me with interest I could soar forever, such was my eccentric, selfish behaviour. Jack would have pulled me in, and I might have accepted, following blindly into the underworld like a demon under the spectre of haste and darkness, where I would become my own doppelganger, if not...for Watson. He changed my course, my nature, and I became a champion of sorts, helping the law, however injudicious. But I found something more important. Finding a friend. John became my world, and when he finally left my sphere of comfort for Mary, everything fell apart and my drug-induced stupor sent me reeling back into Jack's arms like some insubordinate pup.

To reward my indiscretion, my final battlefield was here, not in a dungeon, a hall for nobles and King's, or in Moriarty's own chambers. It was in a miserable home, a beastly dwelling made up of shadows, faces, blood, sweat, horror and mutilation. I was not innocent, but I was bound for this road of redemption. I sternly reproved of their ways. They made me slice off an innocent's fingers. They filled me with their hatred and bane, sullying my person like sordid, wild fiends.

The stage was revealed on that rotten Friday morning. Jack Silver and Murtle had already left, but not through the front door. I believe it was the attic they had ascended through, using a negotiated, reliable and plotted path across the many roofs of Victorian London that combed across the town like a circuit of easy access. The buildings melded like bricks, allowing easy passage to Dorset, King Road or Oxford without having to cross roads and take long ways around. You were in short; like a London pigeon flittering from one location to the next without being seen and rarely heard if one was practised and careful enough.

I awaited my assailant in the bathroom. I had been dumped there after Mandy's cut hand had bled like a severed neck since last night, and I lay, shattered and exhausted. The cold, bare floor beneath my savagely beaten body was a cool comfort, and somehow, despite the pain, the fear and the seclusion, I slept. My dreams were loose, hot and mottled with groping fingers, seething slashes and molesting embraces. Sometimes I'd awake in the ghostly light of the tiny slanted window, the iron bars ghosting chalk lines of black against my alabaster visage as the moon grinned, wide and opaque in a feverish black. Then sleep would have me again.

Patrick was taking his time. First he would prepare his escape before he'd butcher me. Jack had undoubtedly left with Mandy as insurance that Patrick would carry out his last little task. I believed deep inside that Mandy had died. Injury to the hand is unimaginable, the pain unspeakable...and the blood loss. He'd carry her in bundles I presume, across the rooftops, then dump her in some disused factory chimney where she'd burn the next time someone stoked a fire. Patrick would be none the wiser; he was the fall guy, I the lamb. I didn't want Jack Silver to get away, but I had no choice. His hunt I would leave in Lestrade's incapable hands.

When dawn came on the third day, Friday...I sat up, massaging my stiff, cold shoulders and shivering as the blood returned to my veins. Patrick would not use a gun. A retort would alert the close neighbours and give Patrick less time to get away. And that vile man would make a mistake; he'd assume I am weak, given up. Left for dead. A knife would do the trick. No struggle. And he'd leave, silently like a cat. And that was where he was wrong. I still had fight left in me; whether my body would carry out my last wish is another matter entirely. I suppose it's no use worrying. It won't help me any.

I hear him sharpening the knife now. I ignore the whale-bellied arm sticking over the bathtub as if someone is primed to get out. I shall never be able to bathe alone again.

I shuffle around the blood that has spilled like clotted ruby onto the floor in a perverted waterfall. Shuffling is no good, I curse myself, and attempt to stand. The floor staggers in rhythm to my stumble, and I clutch the revolting arm by accident. I shamble backwards, hitting the plaint wall. Patrick must have heard me. The long, shivery strikes of the blade on hard leather stops, soon to be followed by pounding footfalls across the kitchen floor. My leg jerks downward, followed by my reluctant left. I resist placing my hands on the wall to guide me. I had to pull up all of my last shreds of strength for this; every strand! If I were to die, in this grotty, damned hell, I was going to take Patrick down with me. Let this be my last mantra; the wounded wolf to the wicked lion. My teeth will gorge into your hide, and I will not let go until your strength hath failed!

He was climbing the stairs cautiously. No matter. He was full of overconfidence; the most obvious signs being how the shadow of the knife preceded him; a silly thing to do, and how heavy his footfalls were. He was like a boxing champion entering the arena that coaxed in weaklings and beginners.

I knelt down behind the boarding – a stiff shaft of wood acting like a banister on the landing as the stairs ended. It was a brazen place to be, a location so involving that it would hopefully throw the killer straight off his mark. But I was weak. My hands were shaking on the piece of broken bone I had gathered at the base of the bathtub. Jack had combed the rest of the area for anything that might be used as a weapon, and thankfully he had overlooked human remains.

Patrick was climbing the last of the stairs. I could hear his heavy breathing, the scuffle of his boots on carpet. For the briefest of moments I thought of reasoning with him. Patrick was not like Jack. Mandy was a hostage, and Patrick's hands were tied; him being not the veil of evil that had concentrated us all here. He was but a doer, a maker of a devil's work. But no! I shunned the thought right out of my mind again. My negotiation would leave me open; unguarded, and my advantage lost forever. He meant to kill me. That was that.

I drew the shaft of bone towards my thigh, ready to deliver it up, the heel of my other hand on the base to act as a hammer, hoping to wedge the bone into his neck, or better; his eye. My aim had to be critical, or else miss and leave myself open. I was concussed, my vision blotchy, enervation wasting me away. Patrick was a heavy man, full of meat, sinew and some muscle beneath that rotund flab. His stockiness, combined with his weight, would make a meal out of my agility and frenzied, barbaric attack. I hated my ability to summarise every situation, knowing how impossible it all perceived when I was crippled like this.

He came up to the top of the stairs. I flashed upwards like a dark wolf flashing his teeth, and drove the stick of bone into Patrick's unsuspecting face. For a moment I had the advantage, for in that flare I saw his eyes swivelled to meet mine, and they were open with flocking panic and surprise, the knife a glittering, dark comrade in his huge right paw. But either because I was a fraction too slow, or because I didn't have my full cool, calculated energy, Patrick swerved the bone away with an amazing feat of speed, and hit it out of aim with his free hand. I went forwards, fully expecting my weight to be behind my sword of human femur, and over tipped my balance, landing him the advantage in but a helpless second.

He drove the knife towards my stomach. I cut to the right just in time, using my own fall as a ways of tipping away from him, only to fall against the wall. He reached me in but a single footstep, his giant size creaming any possible chance I had. I fell down; feeling and hearing the knife sink into the plaster board where my head had been but a singular moment ago. The knife briefly out of play, I swiped my elbow into his liver from my lower position, and as Patrick was confused, half wanting to purge the blade from the wall, one part wanting to manhandle me, and one part wanting to hold his liver, he was but a tumble of useless hands and groans, so I elbowed him again in the same spot, scrambled to my feet and made a dash to the stairs. He reached out like a bear yearning for an embrace, and snared me. I snapped backwards, crashing into him as his free hand hooked out the blade. We fell down, me on top of him. "Tosser!" Patrick yelled, the word not familiar to me, "You cunt! Hacking off Mandy's bits like that! I'll drive this blade into your poisoned chest and slash the shit out of you!"

A wolf I was no more. At the mention of what I had done last night, horrible images I had bludgeoned out of mind came roaring straight back, and as I rushed to stand, Patrick hacking the blade through the air as though it were a meat hook, I saw it. Actually saw it. I froze, the hair on my head stiffening like frost while my scalp tightened and my body went white cold. For a whole moment the world was without motion, sound or breath. For there, standing in the shadow of the landing behind Patrick as he was gaining his feet; was a large, blackish dog with white whiskers, teeth and streaming ghostly eyes. It was staring right at me, unmoving like a giant statue. Then Patrick, with all the grace of a boar, leapt into me and sent the blade into my side. I screamed as I was pushed back, the blade's tip feeling like burning hot fire as I tried to prevent him from plunging it in deeper. Somehow, during the throes of massive, unyielding pain and stark-raving fear, a flitter of instinct took over my diminishing mental state and I grabbed Patrick's knife hand and thrust my elbow into the humeral lateral joint – the point connecting the forearm to his upper arm. My slender hit jammed into his brachial artery, and this was enough to not only dislocate his arm, but cause an instant of paralysis and great pain.

He let go of the knife to hold his injury, and without feeling a thing I slid the blade out of my ribs and jammed it at him like a fencer. He brushed off my attack as if I were but a feather, and indeed there was no weight to me. The blade dropped and he punched me in the stomach, a blow I would feel for some time, and when Patrick went to pick it up, I pushed him towards the stairs. I grabbed the knife; but the rest I can barely recall. Mandy had come up the stairs, I had no idea she was still here, in this building, alive! And perhaps neither had Patrick, for his eyes opened in delight and surprise for an instant despite the ongoing struggle to survive. Her hand – or rather her stump – dripped blood, and she let it sway against her side like a hanging cut of dribbling meat. She had a larger blade in her hand, and while Patrick was looking at her, dumbstruck as well as senile, she stabbed him in the kidney like a witch butchering a choice sacrifice. Needless to say, I stood until I fell, exhausted and already hot with oncoming fever. Her form, reddened by blood and brutality, wavered before me like a figure behind a veil of flame. Then she plunged the knife into her belly and fell down the stairs. The dog I saw again, standing in the same place it had before with its wide, beaming eyes and rotten lips. It smiled at me, and I thought I would die. I backed away, feeling my life fade. The floor and walls moved in a gentle haze as my eyes filled with tears. The dog's image distorted just a little, yet even so, its eyes never lost their jealous ferocity.

I sunk into the bedroom, sliding under the bed hoping that the dog would not be able to reach me, and I was wrong. I heard it thump into the room after me; I could hear its strange, hollow breathing and the smell of putrid meat. I swaggered to the very centre beneath the bedsprings and clutched my bleeding chest, dreading the moment its great, bloodless jaws would lunge for me. I saw its shadow press against the floor as it came, like death whispering across the room. I shut my eyes and willed it away. Time passed, and essentially I fell unconscious, head injury, blood loss, starvation and fever taking its toll. Later that day, evening loomed, and just as twilight inked the fog of London, my dear, dear Watson finally came for me.

Watson had later told me before my condition worsened that their massive clue to find me was all because a woman close by reported screaming, and the sound of two gunshots. A gun was never fired, for there was never any revolver ash on any of the victims, me or Patrick, and no casings or bullets were ever found. I believe that the sounds that the woman heard were not from a gun at all, but from a great black dog of death; barking like a shotgun. Perhaps that was death itself. The muzzle of the gun was the head of the dog, and his barks brought damnation and demise. They say too that Patrick was discovered dead in the very bedroom I had chosen to hide in. The only conclusions I can draw upon was that either Mandy had survived her own suicide and dragged his body to the room, or else the dog had dumped it there. My mind is hazy, and I cannot elaborate any further. Fret not, though, for Watson I leave to be the narrator for the rest of this story, if it can even be called a story. My mastery is no more, and I shall funk it if I continue.

Forgive me.


End file.
